


A Frary Merry Christmas

by startwithasong, thanksforthecrumb



Category: Reign (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Christmas Fluff, F/M, Fluff, M/M, bc no one needs the crap that is canon reign rn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-02
Updated: 2015-01-04
Packaged: 2018-02-27 21:23:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 24,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2707271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/startwithasong/pseuds/startwithasong, https://archiveofourown.org/users/thanksforthecrumb/pseuds/thanksforthecrumb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of modern AU Frary/Frash centric Christmas ficlets, set in Fraryland. Rated T for language, because Bash has the mouth of a sailor and Mary isn't exactly the sugar plum fairy. Also for slight sexual references because why not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. So This Is Christmas...

**Author's Note:**

> Some references to our [Fraryland headcanons](http://www.tobyregblog.tumblr.com/headcanons). It's not necessary that you read them, but it's good for understanding the characters and setting of Fraryland.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's written by me (thanksforthecrumb) and my sister, whilemyfandomsgentlyweep. Some later fics will be written solely by me, or, on a rare occasion, solely by her. (I don't completely trust her with Frary, what can I say.)

The remnants of a once-noble Thanksgiving dinner sit on a table creaking under the weight of a plundered turkey carcass. Several sticky (and decidedly empty) beer bottles are scattered around the apartment. The silence is thick and warm, nearly stifling. The TV is on and tuned to NBC, the normally loud roar of football and its enthusiasts incredibly quiet because no one in this apartment actually gives a shit about sports. Just like that, in a rather anticlimactic forty-five minutes of manic eating, Thanksgiving has come and gone.

Mary, Bash, and Francis (the aforementioned manic eaters) are slumped over on top of each other on their lumpy couch, stuffed with over-dry turkey, mashed potatoes, and too much canned cranberry sauce/jelly/some sort of vaguely gelatinous food-product. “Uuuhhhhh,” Francis groans, and Mary and Bash echo him with resounding “ _ugghhhhhhhh_ ”s.

There’s a bloated silence that’s only broken by the occasional worried gurgling of too-full stomachs. Shouldn’t have eaten that pie, Francis thinks, glancing down at the bulge pushing out at his shirt. He undoes a button and exhales in weary satisfaction.

“So,” Mary says after a while, “I guess this is Christmas now.”

“ _And what have you done…?”_ Francis sings, loud and exhausted and out of key.

“ _Another year over…_ ” Bash says, perking up a bit at the excuse to sing John Lennon Christmas songs.

When more than two seconds go by without the next line, the boys look over at Mary expectantly. She heaves a sigh. Francis raises his eyebrows at her. Bash nudges her with her elbow. “Any time,” he whispers.

“Oh my God,” she says. “I hate this song.” Not entirely true. She just hates the fact that Francis is _always singing it_.

“SACRILEGE,” Francis yells in her ear.

Ever the pushover (well, who wouldn’t be with Francis grinning at her like that), “ _A new one just begun_ ,” Mary sings. “Happy now?”

“Very.”

“A little more enthusiasm would be appreciated, Mary. You were a little flat,” says Bash, resting a sympathetic hand on her shoulder.

“Yeah,” Francis agrees. “You’re kind of bringing us down.”

Mary shoots her boyfriend a look before he bursts into the ELO smash hit she knows he’s referencing. He raises his eyebrows innocently and hums the chorus in a low voice. Naturally, Bash has to join him, so Mary has to suffer through their strained (somehow, they always manage to start it just outside of their pathetic ranges) rendition of “Don’t Bring Me Down” for a full two minutes, before she finally clears her throat and says, “Can’t we just sit here and think about Thanksgiving for a minute? _Quietly_?”

The boys stop singing. The three of them sink deeper into the couch and Mary breathes in, her belly tight. This is nice, she thinks. She closes her eyes. This is nice. Happy, warm, and sleepy after their Thanksgiving meal. Very nice.

But, obviously, it can’t last. 

“When are we getting a Christmas tree?” Francis asks eagerly, rocking the couch as he sits up and looks at Mary with hopeful eyes.

Oh God, there it is. The eternal battle. Mary should have expected as much—it’s amazing he’s waited this long. “Francis, we haven’t even finished Thanksgiving. It’s still November, _honestly_.”

“Please?”

“It’s going to die before we even get into the _real_ season. It’ll be orange by New Year’s!”

“Baaash, tell her we need a Christmas tree,” Francis says, resting his head on Bash’s shoulder in a feeble attempt to gain favor.

“No,” Bash grumbles, shoving him off. “The second we get a Christmas tree, you’re going to want to decorate it, and then you’re going to start singing _the song_ , and then you’re going to want to watch—”

“ _Elf_ , I almost forgot, that’s a _tradition_ , we have to watch _Elf_!” Francis yells into Mary’s ear. She slumps back into the couch, trying to escape her overly enthusiastic, overly loud boyfriend. “Mary, can we watch _Elf_?”

“If we watch _Elf_ , will you shut up about the tree?”

Francis agrees after a moment of consideration. “We’re going to eat popcorn, right?”

“We just had a whole fucking Thanksgiving dinner, Francis,” Bash groans. “You ate the pie. All of it.”

Francis ignores him, too excited in his Christmas happiness to pay attention. (It’s going to be a long fucking winter, Mary thinks.) “You know what else we do with popcorn? Decorate Christmas trees. _It’s beginning to look a lot like Christm—_ ”

“Oh God, Mary, quick, get the boy some popcorn before he kills us all,” Bash says, nearly pushing her off the couch in hopes of stopping Francis’s singing. He glances at his brother, gleefully singing _the song_ in a key that doesn’t exist. “I’ll get _Elf_ , just calm down, loser.”

“Get the one with the bonus features!”

Mary sighs as she gets up to make the popcorn. So, this is Christmas indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me tell you, this'll be a long haul. Started writing these around Halloween, and here I am, December 2nd, still working on them. AFMC (so I made an acronym. Sue me) should have twelve parts (twelve days of Christmas, because I'm cliche like that) if I can hunker down and crank them out. (I'm on number five as I write this note that no one will read). I hope someone other than my sister and me enjoys these. Also, merry Christmas to those who celebrate it, happy Hanukkah, jolly winter/holidays and all that politically correct stuff. Happy what have you.


	2. Baby, It's Cold Outside

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written by thanksforthecrumb. Also, to those of you who have watched the episode, I hope this gets your mind away from...that.

The vaguely wet crinkle of a snowball hitting a winter jacket makes Bash jerk, the small of his back tingling. He whips around, shovel in hand. “Who threw that?”

Francis couldn’t have contained his laughter if he’d tried. He’d decided that five minutes of shoveling is entirely too much, decided that he has gloves on and is, therefore, immune to the chill of winter, decided that there is a lot of snow by his feet; pristine white snow almost begging to be rolled into a ball and chucked at big brothers wearing comically large ski pants. And from there, he involuntarily decided to ignite a snowball fight—actually, for accuracy’s sake, we’ll call it a snowball war (or perhaps _massacre_ )—between the three of them.

Bash’s cheeks are nipped pink with cold. He flares his nostrils, trying to keep them from freezing. He can think of many things he would rather be doing than shoveling his stepmother’s driveway. He hones in on Francis, who is giggling and busy effectively not shoveling. “Francis?” he growls.

Now, Francis has learned from many previous encounters of this same incident that the best thing to do is blame it on somebody else. Which is why he points a gloved hand at Mary, who is huffing over an intimidating pile of snow, and says, “It wasn’t me. It was Mary.”

Bash pants, hesitating as he looks from the shovel in his hand and the bent over shape of Mary. He picks up a heavy clot of snow, rolling it to form a ball. Someone has to pay. But he also knows that if he throws the snowball, it will mean the end of shoveling, which also means that Catherine isn’t going to pay them like she’d promised. And they can all use the money. With Christmas coming up, they have to start buying gifts. And Catherine has been more than fair; forty dollars for each of them if they cleared her driveway. Forty dollars that will not be deposited into Bash’s bank account if he throws the snowball. He knows he shouldn’t. He really shouldn’t. Forty dollars…Forty dollars Bash wants, needs. Just as long as he doesn’t throw the snowball. The answer is obvious.

Bash throws the snowball.

“Hey!” Mary protests in surprise as the snow hits her leg. “What the hell, Bash?”

“You threw a snowball at me.”

“What? No, I didn’t.” There’s a cushioned thump as Mary’s shovel falls to the ground. 

Well. There goes the shoveling money.

Bash looks at Francis, who giggles involuntarily. Another snowball is hurled. Francis ducks, the fuzzy red pom-pom on the top of his hat jiggling. “You missed!” he says gleefully in a sing-song voice. “You threw it and you mi—”

Bash certainly didn’t miss that time.

Francis spits the snow out, wiping his face, which is getting redder and redder. “That’s not fair. No head shots.”

“You shouldn’t have thrown it when I had my guard down.”

“You shouldn’t have had your guard down.”

“Calm down,” Mary says, stepping between the brothers. “Honestly, you two are about eight years old. How many times do the adults have to tell you? Don’t fucking throw snow.”

Francis throws snow.

It hits Mary’s hood with a satisfying splattering noise. Unfortunately, Mary doesn’t find it very satisfying. She turns around to face her boyish boyfriend very, very slowly. “Francis?”

His smile falters. “Yes?”

“Did you just throw a snowball at me right after I told you _not to fucking throw snow_?”

“Yes?”

_Thunk_.

Francis and Bash aren’t the only ones throwing snow anymore.

The three bundled up not-quite-mature-enough-to-be-classified-as-actual-adults freeze. They stare at each other, sizing up the piles of snow at their feet. Who will get to the snow first? Who will be the first to throw, and who will throw hardest? Inside their not-so-waterproof waterproof gloves, fingers twitch in anticipation. Knees creak, nose hairs clump together with the cold. There can be only one victor in this war. Who will move first?

As it is, no one has to move first. An overhanging tree branch sways in the wind, dumping its load of snow onto the ground and interrupting the careful silence with a muffled thump. Bash lets out an answering war cry and Francis dives onto a neighboring pile of snow. 

“Let the Hunger Games begin,” Mary mutters, eyeing her boyfriend’s army-crawling form on the ground. She doesn’t have much time to smirk over his enthusiasm. One of Francis’s snowballs whiz in front of her nose, and she reels away from it, blinking. “No head shots!” she protests.

“This is war, sweetheart,” Francis calls back, his body hidden in a hastily dug snow den. “There are no rules in war.”

“Pretty sure there are,” says Bash, who is hiding behind a tree and rapidly producing ammunition.

“Can I just have _one_ good moment?” Francis whines. “You guys always ruin it. Just let me say _one_ cool thing.”

Bash stands, his arms loaded with snowballs, and steps away from the shelter of his tree. “Oh, yeah? And what do you want to say?”

“Eat snow!” Francis yells, thrusting back an arm and catapulting a snowy orb at his brother’s face.

Bash splutters as it hits him. “Okay. Wait. Time out! Fucking time out.” He deposits his armload of snowballs onto the ground. “Can we just lay some ground rules, here? Obviously, _some_ of us—” a heavy glare at Francis—“have a thing for head shots, despite the _vehement_ protestations of others.”

“It’s a snowball fight,” says Francis. “All bets are off. And you threw a snowball at my head before.”

“All bets are not fucking off, and that was before this had started, obviously. The rules didn't apply.” Bash turns to Mary, his eyebrows raised high in what he considers his reasonable face. “Ref, Ref, what do you say?”

“Whoa,” says Francis. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. How come _Mary_ gets to be the ref?”

“Because _Mary_ didn’t throw snow at people’s heads.”

“That doesn’t mean that she _won’t_.”

Mary steps forward, throwing Francis a withering look. “Ref says that head shots are illegal.”

Francis huffs. Bash nods. “Penalty?”

“No hot chocolate when we go in?”

Bash whistles. “Harsh. But fair.”

“Fine,” says Francis. “Don’t come crying to me when you hit someone in the head and get banned from hot chocolate.”

Bash shrugs. “It’s my hot chocolate. I bought it.”

“You did not buy it, you liar. Dom bought it,” Francis objects.

“Same thing.”

“It’s not the same—” _Thud_.

The brothers turn to look at Mary, already armed and poised to strike with another snowball clutched in her hand. 

“We never called time,” Bash says incredulously.

“I’m the ref.”

“Well that’s not fair.” Francis this time, mouth slightly agape and blinking quickly.

“Never said it was. Now pick up your weapons, goddamn it. I don’t want this to be an easy win.”

“Ha!” Bash gathers up his snowballs. “There’s your cool line, Francis.”

“It doesn’t count if _I_ don’t say it.”

“Ah, whatever.” Bash lobs a ball at Francis’s back, grinning wickedly when it erupts against his brother’s coat.

“I’m going to get you,” Francis warns his brother, raising an arm.

“You can try.”

Francis shakes his head and smiles. But before he can release his weapon, a snowball hits his foot. He turns to see Mary and ends up catching another of her snow-bullets in his chest. “Hey!”

She shrugs and continues assaulting him with snow. He laughs harder and throws the snowball meant for Bash as hard as he can at Mary. It hits her stomach and she grunts in annoyance, narrowing her eyes at Francis.

“Hey!” yells Bash. “Don’t hit girls!”

“That’s fucking sexist!” Mary shouts back.

“I know, but sometimes it works!”

Francis hits Mary with another snowball.

“Hey!” Mary growls at him. “Don’t hit girls.”

“‘That’s fucking sexist,’” Francis mimics with a grin.

“Only when boys say it.”

Francis laughs and tries to run away from an advancing Mary, collapsing in the snow as his knees give out under him. He can hear Bash’s far-off cry of “Man down!” He chuckles into the snow, a warm feeling of happiness blossoming in his body despite the fact that his bare cheek is grinding into the cold ground and has pretty much lost all feeling.

A weight drops onto his back. “Hey,” Mary mumbles in his ear. “You need help getting up?”

He thinks about it. His heart is racing in his chest, there is about a half ton of snow stuck in his jacket, his legs feel all tingly, he can’t feel his toes, and his face is well past completely frozen off. “Nope,” he answers, rolling away and sitting up on his knees. He needs to replenish his snowball supply.

“That’s what I like to hear,” Mary says. She sits next to him. “Alliance?”

He looks at her, frizzled strands of dark hair erupting from her jacket’s hood, her normally pale cheeks splashed with red. Her lips are chapped and peeling, her face is wet with snow, her eyelashes are clumping together with pieces of the falling white flakes. Her face is alive with the competitiveness of the snowball war, of wild delight, of exhilaration. Watching her, Francis is buzzing with peaceful happiness. He loves winter. He loves Bash. He loves Mary. Most of all, he loves snowball fights. 

“Alliance,” he agrees, handing her a newly formed snowball.

Mary smirks evilly. “Split up,” she says. “Let’s take that bastard by surprise.”

Francis grins. And then he hesitates. “Wait. How come you get all the good lines?”

Mary rolls her eyes. “Do _you_ want to say it?”

“It’ll have less effect now that it’s already been said…but yeah.”

She waits as Francis gives her what she decides to charitably classify as a dark, badass look (who is he kidding, the boy is a golden puppy with curly hair. He’ll never be able to pull off badass). “Let’s take that bastard by surprise.”

 

Turns out that there isn’t always only one victor in war. Because, this time, there are two.

* * *

The sky is considerably darker when the three trudge inside to their apartment, their footfalls heavy with snow and the winter boots they wear.

Francis’s blond hair is damp and especially curly, melting white flakes of snow dotting his head. “Brrr,” he says, shaking as he takes off his wet coat. “I’m freezing.”

“Me too,” says Bash, running his hands up his arms. “Hot cocoa to warm up?”

Francis brightens. “I’ll get the mugs.”

But Mary stops him, tugging at his shirtsleeve. “Hey.”

“What?” He pouts. “I didn’t make any head shots after we made the rule. I still get hot chocolate.”

“Yeah. But I can think of a better way to get warm.”

Francis’s brow wrinkles. “A shower? I mean, what—”

Mary nods to their bedroom, tracing a cold finger against his collarbone. Her brown eyes are big and dark and clutch at Francis’s playfully.

“ _Oh_ ,” says Francis. “ _Oh_. _Yes_. That’s _a lot_ better than hot chocolate. Yes. Let’s go… _get warm_.”

Mary only smiles and leads him into the bedroom.

“But hot chocolate after, right?”

“Hot chocolate after.”

He leans in to kiss the tip of her nose, which is about as cold as Edward Cullen’s would have been. (What? He’d been watching ABC, and “Eclipse” had happened to be on…)

“I love you,” he tells Mary contentedly.

A faint smile stretches its way onto her face. “I know. I love you too.”

“This is the best way to get warm,” Francis sighs as Mary shuts the door.

“The best,” she agrees. She grins up at him and shakes her head, laughing gently.

So they settle themselves amongst the blankets and proceed to get warm ( _very_ warm), and neither can remember a happier (or warmer) time in their lives.


	3. In The Spirit of Christmas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written by thanksforthecrumb.
> 
> I think anyone who's ever had the misfortune to own an Advent calendar has been here.

Mary is trying to do the brain games in the US Weekly they’ve gotten in the mail when her brain-gaming is interrupted by the vigorous shaking of a box filled with chocolates and the loud sounds of two mostly grown men ( _psssht,_ “men”—one’s a half-grown boy-puppy, and the other is…well, she’s not really sure what Bash is) running through the apartment. She checks her watch.

_Shit_.

It’s that time of day. The dreaded five o’clock.

“Whose turn is it?” Bash asks Mary eagerly, shaking the red cardboard box.

Well, obviously she isn’t going to get anywhere with the brain games. She sighs and checks her phone’s calendar. “Francis’s.”

“ _Hah_!” says Francis. “I _told_ you.” He snatches the box from his brother’s hands, clutching it possessively.

Bash frowns. “I swear you got it yesterday.”

“ _You_ got it yesterday, remember? You were being all gloat-y because yours was shaped like a present.”

“Oh. Yeah.”

Francis beams (Mary tries to refocus on the brain games, because her heart is starting to play a “how fast can I beat without exploding” game of its own at Francis’s gleeful puppy grin) and opens a flap, popping a bite-sized chocolate in his mouth. “Mmm,” he says. “This one’s better than the last.”

“No it’s not,” says Bash.

Mary sighs.

_And so it begins_.

Why, why, _why_ did she think it would be a good idea to purchase an Advent calendar? What had possessed her to buy one? When would that _ever_ be a good idea? But it had been cheap at Target, and she’d never imagined her boyfriend and his older brother (who, it should be noted, were both legal adults) could be so territorial about tiny, cheap pieces of chocolate.

Which, ultimately, had been her downfall.

Francis smacks his lips, savoring the flavor of the chocolate.“I think this one’s caramel.”

“It’s not caramel. You fucking idiot.”

“How would you know? You didn’t eat it.”

“It’s just plain milk chocolate, for Christ’s sake, Francis.”

“You wouldn’t know.”

“You want to see the box? I’ll get the box.”

Bash scrabbles around on the table for the box. Mary puts her head in her hands. Something tells her that today’s skirmish is going to last longer than the others. Yesterday, it had been “Mine’s shaped like a present and yours was shaped like a Christmas tree. How lame are Christmas trees?”

Bash traces a finger over the nutrition facts on the back of the cardboard Advent calendar. “Milk chocolate,” he says, pointing to the words on the box. “Milk chocolate. It says nothing about caramel.”

“Check the ingredients,” Francis says, taking the box from his brother. “Aha! See. Right there, ‘caramel.’”

Bash rips the box back. “Caramel _coloring_. Caramel _coloring_ , Francis. It’s just the _color_.”

“Yes, but it’s _still caramel_.”

“Oh my God,” Mary interrupts them. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Well, yeah, it does,” Bash says, looking at her with wide eyes.

“It just…It really doesn’t.”

“It does,” says Francis, shooting a glare at Bash, “because caramel is better. So I win.”

“You don’t win,” Bash tells his brother patiently, “because it _wasn’t_ caramel.”

“It _was_. It says. _Caramel_.”

“ _Coloring_. Caramel _coloring_.”

“It tasted like caramel.”

“No, it didn’t.”

“Did _you_ eat it, Bash?”

Bash fidgets. He mutters something. It might’ve been a reluctant “no.” Or (and this is equally likely, if not more) it could’ve been a “ho.”

“I didn’t think so,” says Francis.

“It doesn’t mean you _win_ anything,” Bash points out.

“Um, it means I win _everything_ , because my caramel chocolate was better than your stupid present-shaped chocolate.”

“No way,” says Bash. “No way. Did you see how fucking cool that present was? Like, it had a bow and ribbons and everything.”

“But did it have caramel.”

“ _Yours_ didn’t have caramel.”

“Yes, it did, Bash. Jesus Christ. It says on the box.”

“It does _not_ say it on the fucking box, _Francis_ , okay, it says caramel _coloring_ on the box.”

“ _But it still says caramel_.”

“It doesn’t _matter_ if it says caramel or not. It’s caramel _coloring_.”

“ _Caramel_.”

“It was not fucking caramel, Francis.”

“It definitely was.”

“No.”

“It totally was.”

“Shut up, Francis, no one believes you.”

“It _says on the box_.”

Mary sits back in her chair. _Ohhh_. It’s X-rated, that’s what the answer is. With the words crossed in an X…Clever. She smiles as she pencils it in under the first brain game. Huh. She isn’t that dumb, after all.

“—not even caramel—”

“—it _was_ caramel, I tasted—”

“—probably just _made_ it up to make me _feel_ bad—”

“—it was _caramel_ , Bash, if you’d eaten it—”

“—didn’t even _let_ me try it, not even a tiny _bite_ —”

“—I’m telling you, _it was caramel_.”

“—don’t know _how_ I’m supposed to trust you _at all_ anymore—”

“Will you two just shut up?” Mary yells, throwing down her pencil.

The two brothers turn wide, owl-eyes to her.

“What if I said that neither of you can have the chocolate? What if I said that _I_ got all the rest?”

Francis lets out an involuntary whimper. Bash scratches his head. “But why. Why would you say something like that?”

“Because you two are driving me crazy with all the—the _fighting_. It’s just chocolate, for Christ’s sake.”

Francis and Bash exchange a long look. Francis scoots over to Mary, fiddling with her hair. She swats him away with her pencil, but he keeps coming, noodling his fingers through the dark tangles. “It’s not,” he starts very softly, his voice tickling her ear, “it’s not _just_ chocolate, Mary.”

She turns to stare at him.

“It’s _better_ ,” he tells her. Bash nods quickly, confirming it.

“Here,” says Francis, reaching over and taking the advent calendar from his brother. He pops a door open, plucking a chocolate out. “Try one.”

“Whoa,” Bash protests. “Whoa, whoa, fucking _whoa_. Did you just offer Mary one of _my_ chocolates? You did not just offer Mary one of _my_ chocolates.”

“Calm down, Bash. This can count as my next chocolate.” He blinks at her, the tiny square of chocolate on his palm. 

Mary stares at it and then stares at him. “Seriously?” she says.

He shrugs and brings it to her lips. She rolls her eyes (inwardly, she loves that he’s feeding her chocolate, because, like, how romantic is that?) and opens her mouth. He drops it in, watching her to gauge her reaction.

She chews. And chews. And chews. (“Jesus fucking Christ, Mary, it’s like a two centimeter square; what are you even _chewing_?”)

She ignores Bash and keeps chewing.

And Francis keeps watching her. “So?”

She swallows. And shrugs. And takes up her pencil, studying the next brain game. “It’s alright.”

“ _Alright_?” Bash squeals. “Fuck it, Francis, you just wasted a chocolate on her.”

Mary shrugs again. “I just don’t really like caramel chocolates.”

Bash’s eyes bug out of his head. “ _Cara_ —did you say _caramel_?”

She grins. “It was definitely caramel.”

“ _Hah_!” Francis yells, pointing a finger at Bash. “ _Hah_! I _told_ you. I _told_ you.”

Bash grabs the box. “Let me fucking see that.” He pops open the next flap and takes out the chocolate, studying it with critical eyes.

“You’re not allowed to eat a chocolate when it’s not your day,” Francis objects.

The older brother ignores him and stuffs the chocolate in his mouth, sucking on it decidedly. “It’s not caramel,” he says. “It’s not fucking caramel.”

Mary raises her eyebrows innocently. “Maybe there are only a few caramel ones in the box.”

Bash shakes the candy out of the box, picking through them and trying to determine their caramel-ness.

“Francis,” says Mary, taking his hand and pulling him away from his brother. “Come with me. I want to show you something.”

He follows her into their room and they sit on the bed, giggling. “Was yours actually caramel?” Francis finally asks her after a good five minutes of listening to Bash’s angry, pointed shouts of “Oh, _wow_! Look at _that_! _This_ one isn’t caramel, either! _Fascinating_!”

“Nope,” says Mary, mirroring his stupid grin. “Yours?”

“Not even close.”

Outside their room, someone is rifling around with a cardboard box. “Guys, I’m going to Target,” Bash calls through the door.

Mary stifles her laugh and looks at Francis as she yells back, “Why?”

“To get more fucking Advent calendars.”


	4. Silver and Gold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written by thanksforthecrumb.
> 
> Just a warning: There may be some backed-up fics. I've got fic numbers five and six drafted and ready to post, but from seven on, everything is a WIP. So instead of the every other day posting regime I've been keeping up, it might stray to every few days, as long as I can keep my shit together. Thanks for reading!

“I think it plugs in here…”

“Just give it to me, Francis—”

“Bash, I’m trying to—”

“You’re just getting it tangled. Lift your foot up; you’re stepping on the cord. Here.”

“It’s not working.”

“Yes, thank you, Francis, I hadn’t noticed.”

“Give it to me. You don’t know how to—”

“Francis, _stop_ , I’ve _got_ it. You—”

“ _Bash_.”

“Here—”

“No, you don’t know what you’re—”

A loud buzz. Some sparks. The two brothers are bathed in the bright, gold-white lights of the icicle Christmas ornaments they are installing on Catherine’s roof. Or, trying to install. Trying is a much more accurate verb. They’d been at it for about an hour with unpromising (and to use this word is generous. Very generous) results.

“See?” Bash says, turning a triumphant _I am better with artificial lighting than you are so hah you loser_ smile to his brother. “Told you I knew what I was doing.”

Francis rolls his eyes. “Well, I helped. You wouldn’t have done it without me.”

“ _Please_. All you did was tangle up the cords.”

“ _You_ were the one who—”

“ _I_ did all the—”

“—wouldn’t even have gotten anything—”

“—making things up, but I—”

“—didn’t even let me help with—”

“—only got in the way—”

“ _Guys_!” Mary yells at them from across the snowy yard. She’s been hanging wreaths up around the house, on the garage doors. She’s just finished hanging the last ridiculously large green wreath on the front door, and she steps back to observe her handiwork, eyeing it in satisfaction. “We’re supposed to be working, not arguing.”

Bash grunts. Francis shrugs.

Mary walks over to them, staring at the single strand of icicles they’ve hung on the house. “This is all you’ve done? Jesus, we’ve been here for an hour. I got all the wreaths hung up. What have you two been doing?”

Francis exchanges a look with his brother. “You only had to _hang_ _up_ _wreaths_. We had to, like, put up the _lights_.”

“Francis, your mom has about twenty wreaths.”

“It’s still just a _wreath_ ,” Bash tells her.

She sighs. Obviously she isn’t going to get anywhere with them. She tugs her hat down over her ears. “Here, let me help.” She reaches for the strand of lights Bash has clutched in his hands.

He pulls away. “We don’t need your help.”

“Come on, Bash. You two aren’t going to get it done. And it’s getting dark. I want to be home soon.” She opens her hand for the lights, glaring at him when he doesn’t move.

He frowns. Francis kicks his shin. He sighs (but not before kicking his brother back). “ _Fine_ ,” he says, handing a length to Mary.

She immediately takes control. (Apparently, that’s her job when it comes to Christmas. _Someone_ has to put a limit on how many mugs of hot chocolate Francis can have in a day, and Bash certainly isn’t up to it.) “Okay,” Mary says, “Francis, you go over there, by the porch. Can you use that—yeah, just step up on that chair. Can you reach the top?”

He stretches his arms, trying to get the lights up to the edge of the roof. “Yeah. Kind of.”

“Bash, do you have the hooks?”

“Yeah.”

“Hand them to Francis.”

Bash grumbles and fishes around in his pockets for the little pieces. “Don’t drop them this time, Francis. We’ve already lost half of them.”

“I wouldn’t have dropped them if someone hadn’t _thrown_ them instead of _placing them nicely_ in my hands like I’d _asked_.”

“I gave you a heads up, okay? I told you, ‘I’m giving you the pins now,’ and you dropped them.”

“I did not _drop_ them. You _threw_ them.”

“ _Into your hands_. You just didn’t catch them.”

“I wasn’t prepared!”

“You should’ve been. I told you—”

“ _Bash_ ,” Mary says, reinforcing her reprimand with a whack of her hand on his shoulder.

Bash points to Francis, his eyebrows raised up against his hairline. “Okay, he totally started it. You saw that.”

“She likes me better,” Francis tells his brother, his puppy grin stuck on his face.

Bash rolls his eyes. “That’s because you’re _dating_.”

“Exactly.”

“ _Bash._ Come on. Just give him the hooks,” Mary says.

Bash mutters something about favoritism and biases and hands the hooks to his brother, who, fortunately, doesn’t drop them.

“Okay, Francis, get the first strand attached,” Mary directs from the ground, feeding the rope of lights up to him.

“Right. Got it.”

“Next one?”

“Yeah.”

Mary smiles. “See, that wasn’t so bad, right? It goes a lot faster when there’s three people working.”

Bash scoffs. “Yeah, okay. Whatever. We’ve got to do the candy canes and the trees now.”

She stops smiling. “Seriously? Holy Christ, Francis. What’s your mom’s deal? Is she trying to win one of those light shows?”

He hops back to the ground, grimacing. “Not exactly.”

Bash jumps in. “There’s this—”

“ _No_ , Bash, _I’m_ telling it. You got to tell her about Thanksgiving.”

“Fine. But I get to tell her about New Year’s.”

Mary blinks. Does she really want to know? Probably not. (Yes. Definitely yes.)

“So there’s this family,” Francis starts. “The Bourbons. They live across the street, and they’re always putting out huge Christmas displays. And every year, my mom gets into a sort of competition with them. She tries to top their lights and stuff. And, usually, me and Bash have to set it up.”

“Wow,” Bash says. “That was the lamest possible way you could’ve told that story. Remind me to not let you speak at my funeral.”

Francis glares at him.

“Well, how much more stuff do we have to set up?” Mary asks, looking around at the house. It’s draped in icicle-lights. Deep green wreaths with red berries and silver ribbons adorn nearly every door. Or any space that a wreath can be attached to, really. There are fake candles fake flickering in every window of the house. Strands of lights are wrapped around skeletal, leafless trees, waiting to be plugged in and lit up.

Francis scratches his head through his woolly red hat. “Well…”

Bash glances at him. “Yeah, I’d say, um…”

“We’re probably going to be here for a while, basically.”

Mary groans. She hadn’t known dating Francis would lead to unpaid labor. Maybe she wouldn’t have gone through with it. (Yes she would’ve. She totally would’ve.)

“We should get started, then, I guess,” Mary says dejectedly. They were showing _Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets_ on ABC Family tonight, and she’d thought they’d be able to watch it when they got home…Well, they wouldn’t, now. Thanks for that, Catherine.

“Mary!” Bash calls, hauling out the framework of a Christmas light tree. “Come help with these.”

“Gladly,” Mary mutters dryly. She trudges over to the two boys, and the three of them push and pull the bulky lights into their positions on the lawn to the tune of Francis’s gleeful, appallingly off-key rendition of “The Most Wonderful Time of the Year” and Bash’s extensive vocabulary of expletives as he trips over the cords.

Let’s just say it isn’t exactly how Mary wants to spend her night. Or any night ever, really.

 

 

 

 

“Last one,” Bash grunts as he bends over to plug in the final bulb. All around them, the house lights up; reds, greens, golden-whites illuminating Catherine’s property, the street, and generally the entire subdivision. (Light pollution must be terrible here, Mary thinks.)

“Done?” she asks, looking around in amazement. A happy (and way too bright, everything is way too bright) Santa Claus rides in a red sleigh and drives a team of golden reindeer, the lead buck proudly wearing a huge, cherry-colored nose. At least ten Christmas trees cast their friendly green light over the snowy ground and draped strands of classic gold-white lights are hung wherever possible. Too bright, Mary decides, but pretty.

“Done,” Francis says, smiling at their work.

“Home?” Mary asks him, taking his gloved hand in hers.

He turns his smile to her, the lights making his eyes especially shiny. He’s wearing his puppy grin (he’s always wearing his puppy grin during Christmas time, apparently), but it isn’t _quite_ his puppy grin. It’s still adorable, but not as little kiddish as usual. “Home.”

She leans into his shoulder as they walk to the car. “I thought we’d never leave.”

He laughs. “Neither did I.”

“Your mom is kind of crazy.”

“Not kind of.”

“I didn’t want to say it.”

“She’s _really_ crazy.”

“It’s a beautiful display.”

He sighs, looking back at it. “Yeah. I only wish it didn’t take twenty years to set up.”

Mary shrugs. “Well, it’s sort of worth it, though, isn’t it? I mean, just look at how _bright_ everything. It’s so happy. It really gets you into the Christmas mood, with the lights and the snow on the ground. All the silver and gold.”

He smiles at her almost apologetically, and she immediately regrets her choice of words. You really have to moderate everything that comes out of your mouth around Francis. This is especially true during winter months. Everything is somehow a reference to a Christmas carol with him, although, to be fair, she had basically served this one up on a silver (and gold. Hah) platter. 

“ _Silver and gold, silver and gold…_ ” he sings at the top of his lungs, his voice tired after hours of singing Christmas songs. (Now Mary thinks she understands how it feels to be a prisoner singing on the chain gang.)

She rolls her eyes and squeezes his hand in an attempt to shut him up. “ _God_ , Francis, _stop_. _One night_. That’s all I’m asking. One night without Christmas songs.”

But soon two voices are belting out “Silver and Gold.” And Mary really _is_ in the Christmas mood, the mood that Francis seems to naturally revert to on November first. Her fingers freezing solid in her gloves, snow up her boots, her hair tangled and static-y and itching her face, impromptu Christmas caroling with Francis, the happy, bright scene behind her back…There is nothing that can take Mary out of this sickeningly jolly mood.

That is, until the house behind them goes completely dark.

“Fuck.” Bash’s voice comes floating out from behind a tree. “I think I broke it.”


	5. O Christmas Tree

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written by thanksforthecrumb.
> 
> We've all got that one family member who's like Francis when picking out a Christmas tree. I'm definitely the Francis of my family. Oops.

If Francis asks her when they’re going to buy a Christmas tree _one more time_ , Mary will explode. He’s been badgering her for days. Weeks, even. The moment they cleared Thanksgiving dinner off the table, really.

Mary eyes her boyfriend warily, but he isn’t showing any signs of asking her, so she lifts a forkful of pasta to her mouth and chews carefully. He’s asked about a tree twice already, but it’s a welcome reduction from yesterday, when the questions came quick and unrelenting and Mary had had to forbid him from hot chocolate as a punishment.

Across the table, Francis fidgets with a pair of scissors. He’s been medicating his lack of a Christmas tree with the studious making of paper snowflakes. There are pieces of white paper littering the floor around his chair; he’s been clipping away at this particular snowflake for nearly two hours now. He hesitates before opening his mouth. “I was thinking that tomorrow I could come home early and we—”

“Francis,” Mary cuts in, “if you say anything about a goddamned tree, I swear, I will go to Target and buy one that’s twelve inches tall and plastic.”

Well. That shuts him up. He frowns a bit and grumbles and gets up to make himself hot chocolate.

“I wasn’t going to ask about the tree,” he says as he heats water. “I was going to say that we could see a movie tomorrow.”

“Really? What movie?”

He clears his throat. “Oh, you know. That one. About that guy. With the…with the, you know, with the…thing.”

“I’ve been looking forward to that movie.”

“Yeah. That one.”

Bash bursts out of his bedroom. “What one?” he asks, his eyes lingering on Mary’s plate of pasta for longer than she is comfortable with. She covers it with an arm, warning him off it with a shake of her head. He grins wolfishly and tries to steal a noodle.

“Oh,” says Francis, mixing the hot chocolate powder vigorously, “you know, that movie we were talking about seeing tomorrow.”

Bash frowns, one end of the noodle hanging over his lip. “I thought we were going to get the Christmas tree tomorrow.”

Mary glares at Francis.

Francis is suddenly incredibly interested in stirring his hot chocolate.

“No,” says Mary, “we’re _not_ getting the Christmas tree tomorrow.”

“Why not?” Bash asks.

Sensing that he has an ally, Francis jumps in. “Yeah, Mary. Why not?”

“Because.”

“But—” Francis starts to protest.

Mary stands up and plucks the steaming mug out of his hands. “Didn’t we agree that you couldn’t have hot chocolate until you stopped asking about the tree?”

“No,” Francis grumbles. “ _We_ didn’t agree. _You_ did.”

She smiles innocently at him over the top of the mug, drinking deeply. He whimpers slightly. He swallows. She blinks. His eyebrows lift and his lips pucker into his puppy face. She frowns. She hates that fucking puppy face. She always loses to that fucking puppy face. Not today. Not today. Today, she’ll win.

Who is she kidding?

She’ll never win against that fucking puppy face.

She sighs. “ _Fine_. We can get the stupid tree tomorrow.”

“Yes!” Francis sings gleefully. He steals back his mug of hot chocolate from her, and when she protests, he swoops in to silence her complaints with a kiss. He’s warm and tastes like chocolate, and she feels her annoyance at him disintegrate. She smiles against his mouth and leans closer to settle into him, her hands on his chest, clutching at the buttons of his shirt.

“Guys,” says Bash.

Francis makes a buzzing sound and sets the mug down as best he can without the use of his eyes.

“Guys,” says Bash.

Mary wraps her arms around Francis and waves Bash away.

“Okay,” says Bash. “I’m just…I’m just gonna go now. Is that o—Yeah, I’m going to go. Guys. Guys?”

They don’t answer, and Bash starts to wonder how they’re still alive. They’ve been kissing for, like, forty seconds. Superhuman lungs, he decides. Superhuman lungs.

“I’m going out for Chinese food,” he tells them.

They break apart almost immediately. “China Hill?” Francis asks, licking his lips and adjusting his shirt’s collar.

“China Hill.”

“I’m in,” says Mary, pulling her coat off the table.

“Okay. But you two have to get a separate booth.”

Mary stares at Francis, her eyes lingering on his ruffled curls, his rumpled shirt. “Fine with me.”

* * *

 “Have we decided where we’re going for the tree?” Mary asks as she slides into the car.

“There’s this tree farm about forty-five minutes from here,” Francis says, checking a map he’s printed off the internet.

“ _Forty-five minutes_?” whines Bash, fussing with his seatbelt. “We have to sit in a car for _forty-five minutes_?”

“We could always get a fake tree at Target and not have to go anywhere,” Mary offered.

Francis glares at her. “We’re _not_ going to do that. We’re going to Morgan’s Tree Farm and we’re going to pick out a beautiful fir tree and we’re going to bring it home.”

“ _Forty-five minutes_ …”

“Bash, it’s not Christmas if there’s not a real tree.”

“Lie. Christmas is about Jesus.”

“When is Christmas _ever_ about Jesus?”

Bash raises his eyebrows. “That’s the point, obviously. We’re too busy with material things and personal gain, we forget the true meaning of Christmas.”

“Thank you for that piece of wisdom, Linus.”

Mary swivels around in the driver’s seat. “So are we going to Michael’s Tree Farm, or what?”

“Morgan,” Francis says. “It’s Morgan’s Tree Farm.”

She rolls her eyes. “No one cares.”

“I bet Morgan does.”

She reaches across the seat to slap him gently on the arm. “Tree farm or Target?”

Francis looks at Bash. Bash sighs in defeat (it’s not just Mary who can’t resist the puppy face) and slumps against the seat dramatically. “ _Fine_. I will very heroically surrender my would-have-been productive afternoon for the good of the masses.”

“Oh, shut up,” says Francis. “The only thing you would’ve accomplished is watching porn.”

Bash glares. “And it would’ve been _very_ productive.”

“Boys,” says Mary. “Honestly. We’re wasting time. If we want to get back early, we have to get going.”

Francis responds immediately to the potential threat of not getting a tree, throwing himself in the back with Bash, and the two brothers sink into their heated conversation/argument/Mary’s headache.

Forty-five minutes, Mary thinks. Forty-five minutes. She concentrates on the road and tries to block out the sounds of bickering. (“Zigzagoon would not win against anything, Francis. He’s a fucking Normal type. Normals don’t win against anything. No, Francis. No. They can’t even win against Ghost types. You’re saying you think Zigzagoon would beat _Combusken_? What the hell is wrong with you? Zigzagoon is a fucking _raccoon_. No. Shut up, Francis. No one likes Zigzagoon.”)

Forty-five minutes.

She’d thought Francis asking about Christmas trees had been bad, but if Mary has to hear one more argument about how everyone underestimates Normal Pokemon like Zigzagoon…

Breathe, she thinks. Just breathe. Relax. Drive.

Forty-three minutes.

* * *

It’s snowing when they step out of the car, Bash and Francis still arguing over Pokemon. “If you two don’t shut up, I’m getting into the car and driving away. You can walk back home,” says Mary.

Francis pouts. “Okay.” He shoots a _We’ll finish this later_ look at Bash, who responds with narrowed eyes and a warning head shake.

Someone is blaring “It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas” at the farm, and Mary has to agree. The snow is falling in huge, fluffy flakes, the smell of pine saturates the air, and the farm’s gift shop is decorated with warm, bright lights. She sighs. She really does love Christmas. What a beautiful time of year.

The moment is abruptly ruined by Francis and Bash running toward the forest of Christmas trees, Francis gleefully singing “O Christmas Tree” at the top of his lungs. In the traditional German.

She sighs. This time not out of peace or contentment or happiness in the season, but because Francis and his brother are annoying little shits. And because they are completely adorable. Also because they’ve kicked snow all over the place. But mostly the first one.

“Mary! Mary!” Francis calls her. “Come here! Look at this one! Look at it!”

She trudges over to her boyfriend, who is molesting a perfectly respectable fir tree with his excited hand motions. “Is this the tree you want?” she asks warily.

He steps away from it, studying its every angle. “It’s got a nice shape…”

“Great. Let’s go home now.”

“Wait, wait, wait. It’s sort of uneven in the back…There’s this big space of no branches.”

She sighs. “Well, there are plenty more trees here. Let’s keep looking.”

“Okay,” says Francis, casting the tree a rueful glance. “Okay. Yeah. We can do that.”

“Yeah?” Mary says, taking his gloved hand. They walk together through the rows of trees, Francis judging them with sharp eyes. Mary can’t see what he finds so objectionable about most of them. “How about this one?”

“No. It’s too short. It would look weird.”

“This one?” She gestures to a tall tree with blue-green needles. She likes the way it looks.

“No. Too thin. The branches are too far apart.”

“Are you sure?”

He eyes her. “Do you want it?”

“Well…I do like it, but you’re the one who wants the tree, so…”

“Let’s keep looking, then. We can come back to it later,” says Francis, leading her away.

“Okay…”

“Ooh, what about this one, Mary? Do you like this one?”

And it’s “How about this one?” and “No; too big” or “too yellow” or “too expensive” or “too cheap.” They tramp through the whole tree farm, but each time Mary offers a tree, Francis looks at it and says it’s too _something_. Mary’s hands are frozen through, the falling snow has quickly lost its charm, and she’s frustrated. “What about _this_ one?” she asks, even surprising herself with the amount of despair in her voice.

Francis studies the tree. “No,” he decides. “The top is crooked.”

_It’s not fucking crooked, you idiot, just choose a goddamned tree_.

“Hey! Hey, Francis!” Bash calls from a few trees over. “Come look at this tree!”

He goes to look at it, and Mary follows slowly, catching up just in time to see Francis shake his head at Bash’s tree.

“Francis, I’m pretty sure we’ve looked at every tree here.”

“There’s another farm just down the road,” Bash offers.

Sometimes Mary _really_ hates Bash.

Francis perks up immediately. “Yeah, let’s go there!”

Sometimes Mary _really_ hates Francis.

* * *

Mary stops in front of a tree in what has to be the third tree farm they’ve been to. “This one?”

Francis frowns at it. “Too green.”

“ _Too_ green? How can a tree be _too_ green? That’s like saying cake is _too_ delicious.”

“Cake,” Bash mutters. “I want cake.”

“Concentrate on the trees,” Francis tells him.

“Cake.”

“Okay, what about this one?”

“No, it’s too…I don’t know, it’s just… _too_.”

“You actually make less than no sense,” Mary says to Francis. He flashes a semi-apologetic smile at her and moves ahead to scout out trees.

“Mary! You like this one?”

She considers it. It has a happy shape; a little fat around the middle, but tall enough to be considered elegant. A pleasant, darkish green. It’s pretty, very pretty. Mary can see it in their apartment, brightly wrapped boxes beneath it. “I like it,” she says. “It’s really nice.”

“And you’re not just saying that to make us go home?”

“I won’t lie, it’s an added bonus.”

“I don’t know…Are you sure? It looks a little uneven on the edges.”

“It looks perfect where I am. Let’s just get it.”

Francis hesitates, feeling it over a last time (honestly, why does he have to manhandle all the trees? They’re in _public_ ). “Okay. Yeah. Let’s get it.”

“Really?” Her voice shoots up about three octaves.

“Yeah. I know you’re tired.”

She eyes him.

He grins and pulls her hat down lower over her ears, tucking loose hair inside. “I’ll make you hot chocolate when we get home.”

“I don’t think you understand: Hot chocolate can’t fix everything.”

“Lies,” says Francis, pretending to horrified. “Those are lies. Hot chocolate is the answer to life, the universe, and everything.”

“I thought that was forty two.”

“Also a lie.”

“Douglas Adams doesn’t lie.”

“Neither does hot chocolate.”

She laughs. “ _Fine_. Buy me off with hot chocolate, if you want. But let’s just get the tree and get out of here.”

He leans down to kiss her, and she welcomes the warmth his lips give, a respite from the chilly winter winds. “I love you,” he says.

“I know. And I love you enough to be dragged through three tree farms.”

“Must be a lot.”

“It is.”

Francis grins. “Let’s buy that tree.” He turns back to it.

Except it’s gone.

“             ,” says Francis, gaping at the spot his tree had been. “It was—it was _just there_. How—?”

“This is bad,” says Mary.

“But it was _just there_. I saw it. Did you see it?”

“Yeah…”

“I don’t—How could…”

“I don’t think hot chocolate could fix this,” Mary says, biting her lip.

* * *

 The car ride back is substantially quieter than the ride to the farms. Francis sits shotgun, his head rested against the window, his blond curls getting wet from the condensation.

“We could always stop at Target,” Bash offers from the back seat.

Francis groans.

Mary glances at him. They’d been turned away from all the other tree farms on the way. Apparently, Christmas tree farms don’t stay open past ten o’clock.

“Hey,” says Mary as they roll up to a mostly abandoned gas station and deli. “Look. There’s a gas station selling Christmas trees.” She looks at Francis. “You want to stop?”

“No,” says Francis. “Just leave me to my fake tree misery.”

Mary rolls her eyes. “Come on. We’re stopping.”

They pull up to the curb and Mary tugs Francis out of the car. “Come on, get out. I didn’t waste my Friday night so I could get a fake tree for Christmas.”

They drag a dejected Francis through the parking lot, making him look at each scraggly tree. Apparently, gas stations don’t have the best selection of Christmas trees.

Francis shakes his head at the whole thing and turns to go back to the car.

“But look at _that one_ ,” Mary says, all but shoving him in front of a tree. “That one is _really nice_.”

“You like it?” Dubious.

“Yeah, it’s pretty. Don’t you think so, Bash?”

Bash squints at her. She kicks Bash in the shin. “Oh, yeah, oh, _wow_ , Francis, _wow_ , I mean, yeah, this is—this is clearly _the best tree_. Like, _ever_.”

“Uggghhhh,” Francis says. Mary pulls him along, propping him in front of several more trees. His response is the same each time: “ _Ugggghh_.”

“Come on, Mary,” Bash finally says after aimlessly trudging through the parking lot twice over. “Let’s just pick a tree and get home.”

“Yes,” Francis agrees. “Let’s just pick one of the stupid trees and go home.”

Mary rolls her eyes and points to another tree. She looks back at her boyfriend. “That one?”

He cocks his head. “It’s not _bad_.”

“I think it’s pretty,” Mary offers.

Francis inspects it, and Mary can tell from his renewed interest in studying the tree that he likes it. He just won’t admit it.

“It’s all right,” he says after a while.

Bash picks it up, struggling to wrap his arms around it. “Great. It’s beautiful. Splendid choice. Wonderful. Christmas can go on now. Let’s go.”

Francis’s eyes stay on it as Bash hauls it on top of the car. Mary watches him. “Admit it,” she says. “You like the gas station tree.”

“I _do not_ like the _gas station_ tree.”

She loops her arm in his. “You do.”

“I don’t.”

“Yes, you do.”

“Lies.”

“You totally do. I saw you feeling it up. You only do that with the good trees.”

“I was not _feeling it up_.”

“Right, now you’re flat-out lying.”

He gives her a tiny grin, his eyes shining black in the shadow of his hat. “Maybe I like the gas station tree. But only a little.”

She leans against him as they walk back to the car, its hood quickly disappearing under a blanket of snow. “You love the gas station tree.”

“Like.”

“No, you definitely love it.”

“I don’t.”

* * *

 Pine needles litter the apartment floor. Three pairs of wet, snow-encrusted boots lie by the door. The kitchen table is covered in a grainy layer of Nestlé hot chocolate powder. And a semi-bedraggled Christmas tree stands proudly in the middle of the living room.

Maybe it’s the tiring, long night of plodding through snowy Christmas tree farms, or maybe it’s the astonishing number of mugs of hot chocolate he’s had. But something sluggish nudges Francis into saying, “I’m so glad we got this tree”.

Mary rolls her eyes, sipping her coffee. “I’m just glad we got home before we missed Christmas.”

“Ha. Ha.”

Mary smirks and leans against him, drawing on his warmth. “You know, you were right.”

“I’m always right.”

She stares at him.

“Okay, so I’m not always right, but you didn’t have to look at me like that.”

“Anyway, you were right.”

“About what?”

She leans deeper into his shoulder, and his arm goes instinctively around her, pulling her closer. “Hot chocolate _does_ fix everything.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, okay, but we all know Combusken would beat Zigzagoon. Hell, I'm pretty sure anything could beat Zigzagoon. He's a fucking raccoon.


	6. We Wish You A Merry Christmas (Card)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written by whilemyfandomsgentlyweep.  
> Hey guys, this is my first solo published work in Reign fandom, so hopefully it's up to Kay's caliber! (She's my editor, so blame her ok) I'm more of a Bastradamus shipper than Frary, so this chapter features a few more mentions of Bastradamus, a very important element of Fraryland. ALSO, speaking of important elements, I heavily reference our Fraryland headcanons, so it would be a good idea to check those out as well.

Francis wakes up to Mary’s fondly smiling face, a slight flush on her cheeks as she looks at him. “Morning,” she says as he blinks awake.

“Mm,” he responds, sleepy. “It’s early.”

She finds his hand under the blanket and glances at his watch. He hisses at the cold, pulling his hand back to the comfort of the covers. Mary shakes her head. “It’s seven-forty, Francis.”

“Oh, good,” he says, burrowing into his pillow. “Still have time.”

Mary laughs. “No,” she says, getting out of bed. “It’s time to get up.”

“Nooo,” Francis groans, clutching at the blankets in case she tries to whip them off.

“Francis, come on. We have to make Christmas cards today. Wouldn’t you rather get them over with now so we can do other things later?”

“I want to _sleep_ now,” he mumbles, squeezing his eyes shut.

“Francis,” she says. He opens one eye and looks at her. She has that same patient look on her face, soft and encouraging. “Come on, babe, get up.”

“Uugghh.” He starts stretching. Mary beams, knowing she’s succeeded.

“Froot Loops?” she asks, walking out of their room.

“And milk.”

“Obviously!” she calls back.

It should be against the law to wake up this early, Francis thinks. He wonders if Bash is awake. “ _BASH!_ ” he yells.

A moment later, a rough growl sounds from Bash’s room, then: “ _FUUUUUUCK_.” Francis smiles. If he can’t sleep, neither should Bash.

Mary reappears in the door. “You _had_ to wake him up?”

“Froot Loops?”

She sighs, rolling her eyes. “In the kitchen.”

Francis hops out of bed to find his favorite bowl filled to the brim with pinkish milk, the sugary cereal already starting to disintegrate. “Thanks, Mary!”

“Whatever!” she calls from their room. “Get ready to make cards afterward, okay?”

Francis blubbed around a mouthful of cereal. Bash slouched over to the counter and sat next to Francis, hair mussed, the stubble dark on his jaw. “You’re an asshole,” he grumbles, pulling a bagel out of the fridge and biting into it without bothering to warm it.

“It’s not fair if _I’m_ the only one who has to wake up early.”

Bash snorts. “Early? It’s practically nighttime. And _you’re_ the one who had to sleep with her. I wanted the dude with the weed.”

“Baaash, did you toast that?” Mary asks disapprovingly, coming out of her room with a cardboard box.

“Let me live my life, Mom,” Bash retorts, shoving another bite into his mouth. “Why’d you have to wake him up so early, anyway?”

Mary sets the box on the table, looking pleased with herself. “We’re making Christmas cards today.”

Bash groans dramatically. “Gohhhd, Francis, you couldn’t leave me out of this?”

Mary makes a face at him and opens the flaps of the box to reveal envelopes, stationary, and various crafting supplies. “You don’t _have_ to participate, Ba—”

“Is that glitter glue?” Bash interrupts, diving a hand into the box and grabbing the package. “Shut up, Mary, I’m part of this family, I’m making Christmas cards.”

Francis’s eyes light up as well. “CRAYONS,” he shouts.

Mary shuts her box before he can grab the Crayolas. “Boys!” she says. “We’re just using the envelopes and paper. We’re taking a picture together and printing them out, y’know, like real families.”

Bash pouts at her. “You’re just a murderer of joy, aren’t you?”

Mary pouts back. “Aww, Bash, come on, it’ll be fun. We’ll wear Christmas sweaters and santa hats and it’ll be adorable. I promise.”

“Ugghh.”

Francis finishes his Froot Loops, drinking the last of the sugar-filled milk with gusto. Bash throws the rest of his bagel in the fridge while Mary digs in Francis’s closet for sweaters.

Moments later, Mary emerges in a red sweater covered in embroidered snowflakes, holding an armful of sweaters. She looks excitedly at Bash and Francis, who are sitting on the couch leafing through their neighbor’s Catholic Living magazine, which had been mistakenly delivered to their apartment. Bash points at an article. “Your son _will_ see porn,” he says, and laughs. “Christians. They’re cute.”

Mary throws a blue sweater at him. “I found this in Francis’s closet, I think it’ll look good on you,” she says.

Bash makes a face at her. “You insult me. I don’t fit Francis’s baby clothes, as I actually _work out_.”

“I work out!” Francis tells him.

“You run around once a month when your girlfriend makes you,” Bash replies, disappearing into his room.

Francis sulks. “I work out,” he says.

Mary laughs. “I know you do. Soup-can weights and all.”

“It was on “The Doctors”!” Francis argues.

“Shhh, babe. Here, you’d look good in this one,” she says, tossing him a patterned red, green and blue sweater.

Francis pulls it onto his head. It’s a bit big, but Mary grins. “It’s _perfect_ ,” she says, and her excitement makes him so happy that he agrees. She crawls onto his lap on the couch and kisses him, smiling. “Always wanted to do one of these cards. Your mom’s gonna love it, don’t you think?”

“Please don’t think about my mom when I’m kissing you,” he says, and she kisses him again.

“Stop sucking face and admire my beauty,” Bash interrupts. Mary turns to look at him in his emerald-green sweater and jeans.

“Brings out your eyes,” she says. “It looks really good on you.”

“I _know_ it brings out my eyes, I’m not _straight_ ,” Bash grumbles.

“All right, well, it looks really good on you,” Mary tells him.

Francis darts out to place a kiss on the back of her neck, just to remind her he’s there, too. “Does mine bring out my eyes?” he asks petulantly.

“Mm, of course it does,” Mary assures him.

They get out Mary’s laptop—best camera out of the three—and gather around it. After Mary insists that both Bash and Francis comb their hair—“It’s not getting any neater than this, I need my sex hair,” Bash tells her—they manage to take some decent pictures before lunch (which will consist of Spaghetti-O’s, Oreos, and Froot Loops).

“I’m gonna go over to Mr. Lancaster’s to get them printed,” Mary tells them, taking a handful of stationary with her. “I’ll be back in ten minutes.”

“Okay,” they say. When she leaves, Francis looks at Bash and glances at the TV. “Wanna watch _Elf_?” he asks.

Bash tosses his head back onto the couch, exasperated. “Again?”

“It’s _good_.”

“She’ll be back in ten minutes!”

“It’s got Zooey Deschanel in it. You love Zooey Deschanel. She’s _blond_.”

Bash sighs. “Yeah, all right.”

Buddy hasn’t even made it through the candy-cane forest when Mary returns. “Francis, shut it off, we have the cards.”

Francis pauses the movie reluctantly, looking up at her with innocent eyes. “We’re not… done?”

“We have to actually _write_ to people now, Francis.”

“Oh.” He glances back at the movie. “Can we just wait until Buddy gets attacked by the raccoon?”

Mary purses her lips. “How about we do the cards and then you can watch the whole thing?”

Francis is silent.

“Make hot chocolate,” Bash counters.

“Done. Get the pens,” Mary says, and Francis retrieves the canister from Mary’s desk.

“I’ll write the one to Mom,” Francis says.

“No, you’re gonna schmooze her like you always do, I’m writing it,” Bash says.

“She likes me better, though,” Francis says.

“Shut up, that’s why I should write it!”

“If you two don’t stop fighting _I’ll_ write to your mother and tell her to take you home so I can have some _peace_ ,” Mary threatens.

“You can write it,” Bash mumbles, grabbing another card from Mary’s pile.

“Thank you,” Mary says. “Who do you wanna send that to?”

“Dom. I have his mom’s address somewhere,” Bash says, fishing in the box for the glitter glue. Dom was in France for Christmas, after his mother insisted. He was coming back in early January.

“You have to use the glitter?” Mary asks lightly when she sees him uncapping a tube.

“Mary, you can’t draw your boyfriend a penis for his Christmas card without making it as gay as you can. Jesus, you should _know_ these things,” Bash says, shaking his head. He squirts the pink glitter onto his card. Mary decides it’s no use. She selects a pen and starts writing to her brother.

She’s just finishing the words ‘ _we get along very well together_ ’ when she hears Francis say, “Bash, where’s the blue crayon?”

“I dunno, maybe you dropped it.”

“No, it was right here, though.”

“Well, I didn’t take it.”

“Just give me it, c’mon. I’m making snow.”

“I didn’t take your blue crayon!”

“I _know_ you did!”

“Snow isn’t even fucking _blue_ , Francis!”

“I can’t just use a white crayon!”

“Look, here’s the blue crayon, right here,” Bash says, handing Francis the blue crayon from the box.

“No, no, that’s the _blue_ one, I was using cerulean.”

“You said blue!”

“Yeah, I meant cerulean.”

“Oh my God, they’re _both blue_ , just use this one.”

“Then my snow will be two different colors!”

“You really think your mom’s gonna care what shade your blue snow is?”

“BOYS!” Mary says.

“ _What?_ ” they ask, both scandalized by the interruption.

“Why don’t we take an _Elf_ break, huh?”

They grumble at each other and go back to the TV, unpausing the film as Mary surveys their cards.

_Mom_ , Francis writes, _me and Bash are doing good. I hope you’re okay. I’m still with Mary (she’s the pretty one, remember?) and Bash is still with Dom (also the pretty one, you said). We’re going to watch ELF after this. Thinking about you! Love, Francis._ Accompanying this message is a collage of unfinished blue snowflakes. Mary likes Francis’s handwriting—she thinks the way he writes her name is particularly nice. “The pretty one” is a good name coming from Francis’s mom. She had deemed Francis’s last girlfriend “the one with the nose.”

Mary goes on to look at Bash’s card, careful not to smudge the glitter, which was still drying. _Dom,_ Bash writes, _I’m wearing your sweater in the card. It still smells like you and kinda like me now. Also, I miss you. Here’s a penis even though they’re probably nicer in France. Come back soon. Love, Bash (your incredible and sensuous lover boy)._ His pink glitter-penis is actually quite good. Mary admires such detail in a medium as unpredictable as glitter-glue. She feels a bump on the other side of the card and flips it around.

Taped to the back is Francis’s cerulean crayon, along with a caption: _This is my brother’s crayon. He’s gonna flip shit in a minute so make my efforts worth it. Love you._

Smiling, Mary puts the crayon down and joins the boys on the couch.

 


	7. God Rest Ye Merry (Sort Of) Gentlemen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written by whilemyfandomsgentlyweep.

Francis pulls on a gray-and-white sweater, inspecting himself in the mirror. He can already hear his mom tutting disappointedly at his disarray: “Couldn’t you have found something decent to wear, Francis? Did you even brush your hair?” Francis thinks the sweater is decent enough, barely worn and very warm, and he can’t help the fact that his hair can’t be tamed.

“It’s messy,” Catherine will say.

“It’s unruly,” Francis will say.

“It’s _cute_ ,” Mary will say.

“Ugh,” Bash will say, “can’t you all think of something better to talk about than Francis’s _hair_?”

“Are you dressed, Francis?” Mary calls. “Your mom should be here in a few minutes.” They’re going to Francis’s brothers’ ballet school, where they’re putting on a holiday performance of _The Nutcracker._

“Yep,” Francis calls back, and goes into Bash’s room where Mary is sitting on the bed, trying to tie Bash’s tie as he comments on her technique.

As soon as Bash sees Francis, he protests, “We could have worn _sweaters_? Nobody told me!” Bash is wearing black trousers, a white collared shirt, a pale green tie and a black jacket that fits him perfectly. Where he got the money for such an attire is beyond Francis, but he looks good.

Mary glances at her boyfriend. “Oh… I think your mom wanted a little more formal, don’t you think, Francis?” Mary’s wearing a black dress and a gold necklace which looks expensive but really Francis bought it for her at a thrift shop for $3.50. (“Happy birthday,” he’d said, and Mary had grinned like she knew exactly how much it was worth and thanked him with a long kiss).

“I don’t _have_ formal,” Francis says. “I’m a _mechanic_. You’re a _barista_. Bash is a _student_ —where’d you get the money for this stuff?”

“I save,” Mary says.

“My boyfriend’s family is rich and loves me,” Bash says. “Wanna borrow a jacket?”

Francis reluctantly takes the jacket from Bash and puts it on over his sweater. Bash inspects him, tilting his head to the side. There’s a knock at the door.

“That’ll be Catherine,” Mary says, rushing over to greet her.

“Do I look okay?” Francis hisses at Bash, running another hand through his hair.

“For me? Yeah, you look pretty good. For your mom? Well…” Bash laughs. “I’ll make sure they play Queen at your funeral.”

“ _Uuugghh_ ,” Francis groans, and he hears Mary talking to his mother in the background.

“Show time,” Bash says, and adjusts the collar on Francis’s jacket. “You’ll be fine. It’s only your mother.”

 

 

“Oh, _Francis,_ ” his mother sighs the second she sees him, licking her hand and fussing with his hair before he has the chance to stop her.

“It’s just _unruly_ ,” he argues. “That’s how it _is_.”

“Not if you would just buy some hairspray,” she says, insistently trying to pat down his curls.

They arrive two minutes early to the show, eight minutes late in Catherine’s opinion, and take their seats. Mary has the unfortunate luck to be next to Catherine. Francis says a silent prayer for Mary’s seating position and a thank you for his own. Sitting next to Catherine in a show is like sitting next to an Avengers nut at the midnight premiere of _Age of Ultron_. Utter silence is the only way to make it out alive. “Charles is playing Fritz, you know, he’s very excited about it,” Catherine says to Mary.

“Oh, that’s nice,” Mary asks politely. “What’s Henry going to be?”

“Oh… one of the sheep, I think.”

Luckily, Francis is next to Bash, who is already adjusting the brightness on his phone to the lowest setting so it doesn’t stand out in the dark of the theatre. “Oh, thank _God_ ,” he mutters, typing. “Dom’s still awake.”

A boy wearing tights, about twelve years old, comes out as the lights go down, saying loudly, “The Madison School of Ballet presents… _The Nutcracker_!”

Applause. Francis glances at Bash, who’s already started snapchatting Dom. No—none of that this time—Francis is determined to pay attention. But soon after the overture (how long had it been, anyway?), when children begin tiptoeing onstage and dancing around a Christmas tree to the sound of violins, Francis feels his eyes attempting to roll to the back of his head. He manages to pay attention long enough to see his little brother Charles come out, wearing a too-big blue nightgown, and harass the girl playing with her wooden doll. Quite a role to be proud of.

He glances at Bash, who’s grinning down at his phone. Discreetly, Francis takes his out and types in the password. Luckily he keeps it on low brightness all the time to conserve his shitty battery. With no one to talk to, he texts Bash.

 

**_so how’s Dom?_ **

_naked_.

**_oh… great._ **

_it really is, though_

**_I’m bored._ **

_I’d offer to share, but…_

**_no no. please no._ **

_your loss_.

 

Francis glances up at the stage. It’s a bit darker now, and the little girl is dancing around with a man in a red coat. He checks his watch. Twenty minutes in? It feels like it’s been hours, at least.

He nudges Mary. “How long is this?”

She gives him a stern look, shaking her head and gesturing at Catherine. “Shh,” she says, the barest of whispers. Francis clenches his fist and shifts in his chair, restless and already tiring of the orchestral music.

 

**_SAVE ME_ **

_can’t you just. like. stop?_

**_IT’S ONLY BEEN 20 MINUTES_ **

 

Bash lifts his head at this. “Are you serious?” he whispers, glancing at the stage. “They haven’t even gotten to the nut-cracking yet? How long does it take to crack a fuckin’— _Jesus_.”

“Right?”

Bash surveys the stage, full of little kids running around with tails and gray masks like rats. “They like… demons or something?”

“No, I think the rats are like the people. Symbolically. The people are rats.”

Bash looks at him, grinning. “Fuck off. You wouldn’t know a symbol if it punched you in the face.”

“No, it’s like, it’s like the Beatles song, all the government people are pigs. All these people are rats, y’know?”

“No, this like some Alice in Wonderland shit. Look, there’s that little girl, she’s Alice, and she’s tripping balls and sees all these rat people when she’s really just passed out on the couch.”

“This is _The Nutcracker_ , you dummy.”

Bash glances at a text from Dom. “Don’t call me a dummy, you’re a—”

“Boys!” Catherine hisses, leaning over and glaring at the two of them.

“Sorry—” Francis starts, but Mary just looks at him with _shut-the-fuck-up-you-dummy_ eyes so he just looks at Bash and purses his lips.

 

_you’re a dummy_

**_no, you’re a dummy_ **

_your a dummy, dummy_

**_YOU’RE* a dummy_ **

_I WILL KILL YOU_

**_MAMA, I KILLED A MAN_ **

_I have a boyfriend to talk to_ _you know I could just leave_ _you to enjoy this masterpiece_ _alone…_

**_don’t you love me_ **

 

But alas, Bash does not seem to love him. He takes a picture of the kids onstage—a tall girl about high-school age is dancing around stage on tip-toe, which looks very painful and difficult and Francis thinks he might admire her talent if he cared at all about ballet.

 

**_is Charles in this anymore?_ **

_idfk ask your mom_

**_DO NOT JOKE ABOUT THAT_ **

_WELL_

**_I just want it to be over_ **

 

****Francis waits for a response, but Bash is already grinning at something Dom sent him and he’s alone again. He puts his phone away and looks up at the stage, where it must be nighttime because the dimmed spotlights are the only light onstage. It’s extremely dark in the theatre now. The music is nice and classical, quiet and floaty, and soft, so soft…

“Francis, clap!” Mary says, elbowing him. Francis jolts awake, eyes wide, and glances frantically at her. She doesn’t seem to notice he’d fallen asleep, so he smiles back at her and claps and stands up next to her.

Mary leans in toward him and says, “That was better than I thought it would be.”

“Oh, yeah, definitely,” Francis agrees quickly. “Really good, right Bash?”

“I’m going to the bathroom,” Bash replies, and disappears into the crowd before Francis can say something else.

When the clapping dies down and the children filter off stage, Catherine smiles at him, proud. “Wasn’t that lovely?” she asks. “Charles was wonderful, he’s improved so much since his recital.”

Francis hardly remembers the recital. He’d fallen asleep then, too.

“Well, let’s start making our way out,” his mother tells him. They file out slowly as everyone in the auditorium tries to get out before the others.

“They should be around somewhere,” Catherine murmurs.

“There, with Bash,” Mary says, pointing. The boys—Charles holding Bash’s hand and Henry in his arms—see the rest of their family and beam. Charles runs up to Francis.

“Did you see me?” he demands, holding his arms out for a hug.

“Yeah, you were amazing!” Francis says, hugging him back. Charles’s stage makeup rubs off on Francis’s cheek. He gives Henry the sheep a hug as well—“Baaa,” he bleats repeatedly in Francis’s ear—as Bash chats politely with Catherine, giving her an awkward kiss on the cheek. “All right, boys, say goodbye,” Catherine says eventually after the brothers shower Mary with compliments and questions like “How old are you now? I’m six” and “I like your hair” and “Are you gonna marry Francis?”

“Mummyyyyyyy,” they whine, but after a stern look from Catherine they quiet down. Francis walks them to their car with Mary and Bash, bidding them extra goodbyes and promising to visit later.

“Love you, Francis!” Charles calls through to window. “Bye, Mary, bye Bash!”

“Love you too, Charlie. Merry Christmas!”

“Merry Christmas!” Francis watches the car drive away, waving until it’s lost in the traffic.

“All right, boys,” Mary says. “I called a taxi. Time for us to go home, too.” They locate the car and pile into the back while Mary gives the driver their address. “That was actually pretty nice, though, wasn’t it?” she asks, looking at Francis.

“Yeah, it was great,” Francis says.

“I especially liked the part with the sugar plum fairy,” Mary continues.

“That was my favorite part,” Francis agrees.

Mary glances at Bash, still nose-deep in his phone. “What’re you doing, Bash?”

Bash covers his phone in a blur, holding it up to his chest. “Mary, I really don’t think you want to know.”

“Please tell me you weren’t sexting your boyfriend instead of watching your brothers’ Christmas play.”

Bash looks scandalized. “Mary, I am _offended_. I would _never_. Of _course_ I watched the ballet—it’s a _ballet_ , Mary, not a _play_ , and I watched the whole thing, with Clara and Fritz and the Rat King and the sugar plum fairy and the big tall lady and the wolves and the sheep and how _dare_ you suggest—”

“All right, all right,” Mary says. “I get it, you saw the show.”

Francis looks at Bash questioningly. “I read a Wikipedia synopsis in the bathroom,” Bash whispers. “It actually looks like a pretty good play, to be honest.”

“Ballet,” Francis whispers back. “And it probably was.”

“If we were good people,” Bash says as his phone vibrates again, “we would have watched it.”

“Oh, there’s always next year, right?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right, thanksforthecrumb here. I just wanted to pop in to say that this is the end of the completed AFMC chapters. From here on, the fics will probably be late and of lesser quality than their predecessors, as this whole "twelve days of fluffy Frary Christmas, it'll be soooo fun!!" thing is slowly burying me in stress. Sorry. I'm trying my best.


	8. Deck the Halls

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written by thanksforthecrumb.

Francis fidgets in his chair. He stretches out his neck. He twitches. His eyes begin to itch as he tries to focus them on the book he’s reading. It’s just _sitting_ there, begging him, calling his name, pulling his eyes over to it. He bites his lip. The black letters of his book aren’t registering in his head. He picks at a loose thread on his shirt.

“Can’t we just _decorate_ it?” he explodes after approximately ten seconds of trying to read.

Across the room, Mary sighs. “It’s still really early. We talked about this.”

“But it’s just _sitting_ there.”

“Francis, if you want to decorate it, go ahead.”

“But I want to decorate it _with you_.”

Mary pushes away her crossword. “I just don’t feel like decorating today, okay?”

He slumps back into the armchair. “You never feel like decorating.”

“That’s because you ask me a million times a day.”

“I’m just checking to see if you’ve changed your mind.”

“I haven’t.”

He shrugs and picks up his book, leafing through the pages, trying to find something that can take his mind off the tree. Whoa, Andrew dies on page one hundred fifty-seven. Apparently, that’s why you should never read ahead. Andrew, though? Really? And he died when a tree fell on him, how lame…

The tree! Francis shuts the book with a pomp that rivals his enthusiasm for _Elf_. “What about now?”

Mary sighs again. “What?”

“Have you ch—”

“No, I still haven’t changed my mind.”

This time, Francis sighs. Mary sighs in annoyance at his sigh. Well. Two can play that game. He sighs again. Mary sets down her pencil and sighs involuntarily. He smiles. And sighs.

“All _right_. _Fine_. Let’s decorate the goddamn tree before one of us starts to hyperventilate,” Mary says, rolling her eyes at her boyfriend, who is suddenly happy and bouncing around. The fucker always gets what he wants. She supposes that’s her fault.

“You,” says Francis. “It would’ve been you. I have good lungs.”

“Please. You would’ve had a heart attack if we didn’t decorate that stupid tree.”

“Not true.”

She gives him a little shove as they make their way to the tree. “True.”

“Okay. But I’m only agreeing so you’ll let us decorate.”

She cocks an eyebrow.

He leans in hastily and gives her a quick kiss on the cheek. “I love you.”

She makes a face at him, accepting his kiss anyway. (Who ever said she couldn’t be bought with flattery? No one, and that’s exactly why Francis gets away with everything. Well. Not _exactly._ His beautiful, stupid face might have something to do with it.) “Yeah, okay, sure. Go make me hot chocolate.”

He grins at her demand and pads away to make the drink, always eager to slave for her if it means that he gets what he wants. “Get the decorations out.”

“I _know_ , Francis.”

“Bash!” Francis yells as he plunks down three mugs and opens a fresh box of hot chocolate mix. (It’s their fifth box this winter.) “Bash! We’re decorating the tree!”

There’s a minute of silence and then Bash shouts through his bedroom door, “Shut up, Francis, I’m talking to Dom!”

Francis pouts. “But _Baaaaash_. We’re decorating the _Christmas tree_.”

“I’m talking to my _boyfriend_ , Francis, okay, who’s in _France_ , who’s _been in France_ for, like, ever. Leave me alone.”

“But I want all three of us to decorate the tree…”

There’s a moment of silence where Francis can hear Bash saying something like “But I don’t _want_ to,” followed by a heavy sigh and a groan. The door to Bash’s room opens, and Bash stands just inside, his arms crossed, his eyebrows raised. “Uggggghhh, fine, but only because Dom has to go.”

Francis grins and stirs the powder into the mugs, making sure his cup receives what we’ll very charitably call “not one teaspoon.” “Mary, did you get the decorations out?” he calls across the room.

She walks back into the living room, a huge, beat-up cardboard box obscuring her face. “Yeah. We have a lot more than I remember.”

Bash goes to meet her, and they set the box down on the floor by the Christmas tree. Francis joins them, balancing three mugs of hot chocolate in his arms. They each take one and begin to take out the decorations, with Mary presiding over which piece is dignified enough to grace the tree.

As it turns out, nothing is.

“These are the decorations?” she asks, biting the lip of her mug in disgust. 

Francis looks up at her, ten years’ worth of his cutout snowflakes in his hands. “What’s wrong with them?”

She picks up one, waving it in Francis’s face. “It’s foam. This is foam. It’s the shape of a mouse. How is that even Christmas related?”

“ _Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse_ ,” Francis recites. He takes the homemade ornament from her, smiling as he studies it. “Plus, look, it’s a picture of me and Bash on Christmas day when we were little.”

“Oh, God,” says Bash, batting the decoration out of Francis’s hands, “burn it, please.”

“Why?” Mary asks

Francis grins at her in savage joy. “He had a rattail when he was younger.”

Mary turns to Bash. “Seriously? A rattail?”

“It was _cool_ back then. _Every_ one had them.”

“Please. Rattails have never been cool.”

“It was the 90s, Mary. We all did questionable things in the 90s. I don’t need to defend myself to you.”

She smiles and turns back to rifling through the box of decorations, pulling out most of them and wrinkling her nose. A growing pile of the discarded ornaments sits at her side, and whenever an ornament that isn’t glass/generally looks like it wouldn’t make it into a Martha Stewart Christmas special, she tosses it on the heap.

But when she throws the picture of them kissing under mistletoe onto the pile, Francis has to object. “Hey,” he says, gently taking the ornament (which is trimmed in green glitter and has a Christmas-y background, so, hah, Mary, it’s Christmas related) off the top of the rejected ornaments. (Which, for the record, is bigger than the pile of approved ornaments.) (And math may not have been Francis’s subject in school, but even he knows that’s a problem.) “Hey. This one deserves to be on the tree.”

She turns to face him after fastening a mostly decent traditional Christmas orb on the tree. (It’s probably one of his mom’s old ornaments. Catherine must've given it to them after it’d grown too shabby for her Christmas tree, because she among all people would never trust Francis and Bash with glass. Mary is starting to understand the reasoning behind all the foam and paper ornaments.) “Francis. The glitter’s falling off. The picture is grainy. Hell, I can _see_ the globs of glue on the frame.”

He inches closer. “Yeah, but don’t you remember when this was taken?”

She looks at him, looks at the ornament in his hands. “The mall. Three years ago.”

“Our first Christmas together.” He grins at her, tracing a finger over the surface of the photograph.

Bash rolls his eyes and makes a gagging noise, but no one is paying attention to him. (They’re too busy staring into each other’s eyes. God, someone give Bash a bucket to puke into.) He steals Francis’s abandoned hot chocolate and chugs as much as he can.

“Okay,” Mary concedes, giving Francis a kiss as she takes the decoration, looking back at him when she hangs it up on a branch.

“A little to the left,” he tells her, standing up so he can appraise the decoration’s spot on the tree.

“Like that?”

He grins his puppy grin, the hints of blond hair above his lip (the hair he’s been growing out since he was basically three years old) glinting in the light. “Perfect.”

Mary rolls her eyes, but she’s happy. She joins the boys back on the floor, rooting through the plastic bags of macaroni and flimsy foam ornaments. “Don’t we have any, you know… _good_ ornaments?” she asks after a solid five minutes of pawing through the pile.

Bash looks up, an ornament Henry had made for them clutched in his hands. (This one belonged in the “macaroni” spectrum of the decorations.) “These _are_ the good ornaments.”

Mary sighs. “Like, don’t we have any orbs? Or tinsel? Or angels? Or anything that isn’t made out of food?”

Francis opens his mouth as he fishes out an ornament. He looks at it. Candy canes. Five-year old candy canes. He digs after another. Bow tie pasta. “Yeah, no. We really only have edible ornaments.”

Mary picks up a gingerbread ornament, its frosting smile long since rotted off. “Edible?”

“Possibly edible. At one point in time.”

“And picture ornaments,” Bash adds, tossing a handful of the offending decorations in front of Mary. She looks at them, her eyes catching on the large globs of dried glue. It must be one of Charles’s after school projects. He’s constantly coming home with cheap, brightly colored foam pieces that frame pictures of the family. This one is particularly rough. Whoever glued the snowflakes to the frame used way too much glue. No one should ever give a seven-year old a hot glue gun.

“Oh,” Francis says, leaning over when he sees the ornament Mary’s looking at, “hey. I made that one!”

No one should ever give Francis a hot glue gun.

“Yeah,” Mary answers, ruffling his curls, “it’s great.”

“I’ll just put it on the tr—”

“No, no. Don’t do that.”

He pouts. “Why not?”

“It’s not a _real_ ornament. Don’t you want the tree to look, I don’t know…nice? Normal people like nice trees.”

Bash throws himself on the couch, shoving the errant boxes and bags of decorations aside. “ _Nice_ ,” he says through a gulp of Francis’s hot chocolate, “is _boring_. And so is normal.”

They all pause to think about this profound piece of wisdom. _He has a point_ , Mary thinks, biting her lip. _I am a genius_ , Bash thinks, doodling a penis on the coffee table. _Where’s my hot chocolate?_ Francis thinks, his eyes darting as he scours the floor for his lost mug.

“Hey! Is that my hot chocolate? Bash! _Bash_!”

Mary steps back and surveys the tree, hands on hips as Francis chases his brother around the apartment, yelling about hot chocolate and broken trust. The tree is nearly bare. The only decorations are the old Christmas orb, the picture of her and Francis’s first Christmas, two or three mostly intact candy canes, and a pair of doves made out of deceptive plastic. She looks back at the large pile of discarded ornaments. They’ve been separated into two piles: Those of the uncooked pasta contingent, and those of the shitty foam picture frame crafts and too much glue. She wrinkles her nose as she picks up a decoration of the latter, eyeing the fuzzy photo. It’s Francis and Bash in their middle school years, each mid-chug, each grasping a frighteningly large mug. She rolls her eyes, laughing in spite of herself at Francis’s crazed expression and Bash’s tattletale hand shoving his brother out of the picture.

It’s less than worthy to grace the tree, in Mary’s mind. The foam that holds the picture may have been a bright green at some point in history, but it isn’t now. Whoever made it must’ve had a thing for mini sequins, because swathes of the little disks were stuck to the frame. He’d (at this point, Mary was thinking Francis, what with the large amount of sequins) used way too much glue, and clumps of the clear stuff was all over the picture and foam. She can just picture a twelve-year olld Francis holding the hot glue gun and wanting to use as much of it as possible.

This one’s going on the tree, that’s for sure.

Mary steps back after she hangs the picture on a perky bough. The picture looks odd, hanging with semi-decent ornaments, and it isn’t what she’d ideally put on her Christmas tree. But it fits, in a way. Normal _is_ boring. And this apartment—especially its inhabitants, Mary thinks as Bash rushes by her, Francis right on his heels—is nothing normal. She picks up another shitty craft-ornament, this one bearing a picture of the three of them. From Bash’s hat—and the insistent use of four-leaf clovers on the border—she guesses that it’s St. Patrick’s Day, which makes no sense because it’s in a bag of Christmas ornaments. But Bash’s goofy, drunken smile and Francis’s arm draping lazily over her shoulders makes Mary hang it up anyway.

The tree is still empty, even as she slowly adds ornaments to its branches. Well, Mary’ll change that.

 

 

“Done?” Bash asks as he tosses a less-than-satisfactory decoration aside.

Francis hands her a final ornament, and she steps back, judging where to put it. Ah, there, right by the top. “Yup,” she says, dusting her hands off.

Francis grins and kisses the top of her head. “I love Christmas.”

She rolls her eyes as she allows herself to be pulled into his chest. His heartbeat is strong and sluggish and the cotton shirt he wears is soft and warm and smells like him—a mix of hot chocolate powder, fir tree, Dove soap, and something she can only describe as him.

Bash jumps onto the couch for a better vantage point. “So…This is our tree, huh?”

Mary smiles and pulls away from Francis. “The one and only.”

He cocks an eyebrow. “It sort of…I don’t want to say _sucks_ , but, yeah, it kind of sucks.”

“It does not.”

He scratches his head. “I feel like every year, we just end up using more and more of the crappy ornaments. Like, wasn’t last year’s New Year’s resolution to buy better ornaments? I think that was a thing.”

“It’s _better_ this way. This tree is _us_.”

Francis smirks. “Normal is boring, right?”

Bash shrugs, raising his nearly empty mug in a toast. “I’ll drink to that.”

“You’ll drink to anything,” says Francis.

“But especially that.”

“Whatever.”

Laughing, Mary grabs both their hands and they gather around the tree Charlie Brown style. (Francis is wondering how hard he’ll get slapped if he starts singing “Christmas Time is Here.” Mary is thinking that if Francis starts singing that goddamned Charlie Brown song, she’ll slap him. Bash, to literally no one’s surprise, is thinking about Dom. And hot chocolate.)

“I think this is our best tree yet,” Mary says after a moment.

“Gas station tree, five-year old candy canes, macaroni ornaments Francis made in second grade…” Bash trails off, looking at the other two with raised eyebrows. “Yeah, I’d say this is our best Christmas tree.”

Mary sighs happily, the warmth of the two boys and the Christmas season enveloping her. “Merry Christmas, guys.”

“Merry Christmas, Mary,” Francis says.

“Merry Christmas,” Bash says.

They stand, hand in hand, around the tree for a few more moments, and Mary thinks she could spend a lifetime here, in the company of the people she loves.

Bash breaks the silence by clearing his throat. “Yeah, so I’m going to go talk to Dom. He said he’d call back after he’s done painting.”

“Oh, what’s he painting this time?” Mary asks, letting go of Bash’s hand.

“Don’t know, probably some French girl’s boobs or something.”

“Oh. Okay. Tell him I said hi.”

“I will!” Bash throws over his shoulder as the door to his room slams shut.

“Yeah, I’m going to go make some more snowflakes for the tree,” Francis says, giving her neck a kiss before he retreats to the kitchen table, loaded down with copy paper and a bucket filled with seven different sizes of scissors.

Mary grins. Well. Normal is boring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right, so just in case you didn't know what I meant when I said "shitty craft ornaments," here's a sample of my family's many, many shitty craft ornaments. Believe it or not, these are the good ones.  
> 


	9. Merry Christmas Baby

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written by thanksforthecrumb and whilemyfandomsgentlyweep.
> 
> (shhhh just pretend it's still christmas ok)

Francis is wide awake. He checks his watch.

5:24.

Not early enough to wake anyone up.

Fuck.

He reaches across Mary, very carefully, and retrieves his phone off of the bedside table. _December 25_ , his phone tells him. He beams at the number. December twenty-fifth! The best day of the year, other than his birthday, his and Mary’s anniversary, or Catherine’s divorce anniversary. (Lots of celebratory drinking leads to lots of drunken spending leads to Francis’s yearly wardrobe splurge.)

Francis puts his phone away and shifts in his spot.

“Francis,” Mary mutters. She has her eyes closed, mouth firmly shut. “Francis.”

“Yeah?” he whispers, hoping against hope that she’ll have a sudden craving to open presents _now_.

“Go back to sleep.”

 

 

6:11.

Not early enough to wake anyone up.

Fuck.

 

 

6:29.

Not early enough to wake anyone up.

Fuck.

 

 

6:47.

Almost early enough to start gently nudging Mary so she thinks she’s woken up herself and won’t get mad at him, but late enough that she won’t fall asleep again.

Francis stares at his watch, continuously pressing the button that lights the face, his pulse seeming to depend on the seconds ticking slowly by. One more to sixty, come on…Hah! Finally. 6:48.

Still too early.

Fuck.

 

 

Minutes are so slooooow, Francis thinks as his eyes twitch from watching the digital numbers creep to a semi-decent hour. It’s nearly seven, and when it’s seven, it’s time for Christmas to really start.

Come on. 6:55. Only five more minutes. It’s not that long, really. If he sings “Bohemian Rhapsody” in his head, it’ll be seven o’clock before Francis knows it. _Mama, I killed a man… Put a gun up to his head… Pulled the trigger now he’s dead… And Mama ooh ooh ooh… Didn’t mean to make you cry… If I’m not back again this time tomorrow… Carry on, carry on…_

God, seven can’t come fast enough.

 

 

“Mary.”

He waits. Mary doesn’t move, but her eyelids flutter slightly, so she’s either asleep or ignoring him. He puts his face up close to hers so she can feel his breath. “ _Mary_.”

She’s still a moment longer until finally she wrinkles her nose, smiling. 

“Ha! I _knew_ you were awake!”

“ _Fraaaancis_ ,” she laughs, pushing his face away, “you have morning breath, get _offf_.”

“Presents,” he says, putting his face up next to hers again. “Come on, it’s _Christmas_.”

Mary shakes her head and looks at him, smiling. “Merry Christmas, Francis.”

“Yeah, yeah, Merry Christmas, come _onnnn_!” He tries to pull her up, but she’s just as strong as he is.

She grumbles. “Fine, fine, go wait under the tree. I need some coffee.” Her face changes. “No, wait, let’s open presents first.”

“Yes!” Francis says. “I’ll get Bash.”

“Don’t _abuse_ him,” Mary says, stretching.

Francis runs into Bash’s room, only to find his brother’s bed empty. “Bash?” he asks.

“In the living room,” Bash calls.

“WHY ARE YOU IN THE LIVING ROOM WITHOUT ME,” Francis yells, running out. Bash is lying on the couch cradling a mug on his stomach, looking a bit pitiful. His mug is empty. He looks Francis up and down without moving his head.

With an indifferent voice, he says, “We gonna, like, open things now?”

Francis is daunted by Bash’s lack of enthusiasm, but only for a moment. “Bash, Bash, c’mon. You open something first.”

Bash sits up, groaning. “Nah, I think you should go first, Francy-pants.” Mary joins Bash on the couch, looking at Francis expectantly.

“Come on, loser. Try the big one near the back.”

“Okay,” Francis says, pulling it out from the back and examining it.

“Go on,” Mary encourages. Bash raises his mug up tiredly.

“Open itttt.”

Francis relishes the moment for one more minute before tearing the paper manically. He loves this, the exhilaration of _finally_ finding out what’s in those boxes that have been sitting under the tree for days. He loves the encouraging, excited smiles of the giver and the equally excited, ravenous smiles of the receiver. He knows his cheeks are stretched in some stupid beam, and he can’t care, because he’s so happy, he _loves_ Christmas and everything leading up to it, and this is the big moment right here, he’s tearing the wrapping paper, and he feels a little bad because it looks like Mary’s done a stellar job with the ribbons, but he can see bright, glossy cardboard peeping through, and his hands start ripping even wilder than ever.

“A _Keurig_?” he breathes, unable to contain his excitement. “You got a frickin’ Keurig? Seriously?”

Mary smiles at him. “We all pitched in. We need it, that’ll get us to stop paying so much for La Maison coffee, don’t you think?”

“Are we gonna have some?” He’s already trying to open the box. (A process that will probably result in a few cut fingers and Mary having to lecture him on the importance of lotion, especially in the dry months.)

“Yeah, open the blue present, it’s got some of the flavor thingies,” Mary says.

“Hurry,” Bash groans. He tries to mask his grin with a bored scowl, but the smile resurfaces. No one can’t be happy on Christmas. Especially if they live in this apartment. Especially if they’re watching Francis, giddy with Christmas delight, fumble through the stack of gifts and rip open brightly colored boxes. He squeals when he unearths the packages of K-cups. He _squeals_. God, he’s adorable, Mary thinks, her nose wrinkling of its own accord as she regards her boyfriend. God, he’s adorable, Bash thinks, rolling his eyes at his brother’s happiness.

“Thankyouthankyouthankyouthankyou!” Francis says.

“Not to shit on your parade, or anything, but it’s sort of a gift for all of us,” says Bash, lounging back on the couch. He’s a bit sour without Dom, especially on a day like this.

Mary swats his head. “You’re a fucking Grinch, you know?”

“I don’t care! This is amazing,” Francis declares. “I’m going to make some now, what flavor do you guys want?”

“Ooh, try the eggnog one,” Mary says, grabbing the package and tossing it to Francis. He patters into the kitchen humming a Christmas song and sets about plugging in the new machine.

With the smell of vanilla coffee brewing, Francis rejoins the other two at the foot of the tree, his eyes bright with Christmas excitement.

“Hey, who’s next? Mary, Mary, open that one,” Francis says, pointing to a large box near the front. _To: Mary the loser barista. From: Bash the amazing artist who will be remembered alongside the likes of Picasso and Van Gogh (someday you’ll be approached by snobby art collectors who will offer you very large sums of money in exchange for this but you won’t give it to them because you love me and my artwork so much. You’re welcome)_

She rolls her eyes as she grabs the package, eyeing Bash. “Hmm, I wonder what _this_ is, I bet I’ll be _so surprised_ …”

“Fuck off, alright, you’ll like it,” says Bash. But he’s smiling as he checks his phone for the millionth time, making sure he hasn’t missed anything from Dom. He takes his eyes off his phone long enough to watch Mary open the present.

She tears the patterned paper (off the same roll he’s been using for the past two years) slowly, and she can feel Francis breathing impatiently against her hair. She speeds up for his sake, revealing an oil painting of La Maison. “Oh, wow,” she gasps as she takes it in.

Bash rolls his eyes. “You don’t have to _pretend_.”

“Jesus, Bash, I’m not pretending. It’s—it’s really great. Thank you.” She reaches over, grabs his sweater before he can shrug away, pulls him into a hug.

He blushes. “I know I get you paintings every year, but—”

“Aw, _Baash_ ,” Francis whines, reaching under the tree and grabbing Bash’s present to him, “you just ruined the _surprise_. Now I know what my present is.”

“Honestly, you guys are the worst,” says Bash, grinning a little in expectation as he watches his brother rip the paper. It’s Christmas and he’s not spending it with his boyfriend, but he supposes that’s a little okay, because he’s spending it with his family and it’s really nice. Not that he’d ever say it out loud.

Francis makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat, and Bash supposes he’s unearthed the painting. “It’s great,” Francis says, beaming at the picture.

“You like it?”

Francis nods, almost in a daze. It’s a colorful painting of a bowl of Froot Loops—Francis’s bowl, the high walls of milk lapping at the edges of the bright cereal. Bash’s style of painting—confident, heavy, thick brushstrokes—makes it look even mushier than ever, and Francis can just see the faint swirls of rainbow milk emanating from the cereal. “It’s beautiful.”

Bash sniffs. “Used up most of my oils on you guys,” he says in a way that Mary and Francis accept as a _You’re welcome, I love you_.

Francis admires his painting one last time and sets it down. He eyes his brother, who’s turned back to his phone. “Baaash, you can’t look so grumpy on _Christmas_ ,” he says. “Here, this one’s from me and Mary.” He shoves a tall green box into Bash’s hands, nodding in encouragement. Mary sips her coffee and watches, waiting for Bash to open it.

“Jesus, Francis, you can’t fix everything with presents…Gah, what is it, you used too much tape… It’s practically taped shut, what were you—” He stops as his eyes rest on the gift inside the box. A whole row of perfect, snowy canvases tied together with a shiny red ribbon, the bow bearing Mary’s perfectionist handiwork. Bash looks up at them, his eyes wide. “Guys, you didn’t… This is—Wow. This is so nice. Thanks.”

Mary grins and Francis shakes his head, taking Mary’s mug. “Ugh, Bash, stop being so _grateful_. It’s weird seeing you like this.”

Bash growls and lunges over his present, collapsing into a hug with his brother.

“Wait, stay like that,” Mary says, untangling herself from the quickly growing pile of wrapping paper, “I’m getting the camera.”

“Ah, fuck no,” says Bash, drawing away from Francis.

“Please, Bash? It’s _Christmas_.”

“Fine. But hurry up. And you have to be in it, too. I’ll send it to Dom.”

 

 

Many sheets of shredded tissue paper and several presents later, (various gift cards for Bash, numerous indie band EPs for Mary, and an LP version of _Bookends_ for Francis), the three of them settle around the tree, talking and laughing and smiling until their faces hurt.

When Francis gets up to pour himself another cup of the eggnog coffee, Mary follows him into the kitchen. She grabs him from behind as he reaches for the mugs.

“Hey!” he protests, fidgeting against her arms.

She leans in, lips ghosting over the tight curls that curved around his ears. “Do you have Bash’s present from Dom?”

He grins—she can see his cheeks bunch up from the sides. “Yeah. Under the table.”

“Awesome,” she says, and crouches to grab the ornate box. It’s big, nearly scraping the underside of the table. Dom hadn’t sent a note telling them what it was, so it was as much a surprise to them as it was to Bash. Although Bash didn’t know his boyfriend had sent a gift. Yet.

As Francis unplugs his machine (it’s his, no matter what Bash says, shut up) Mary peeks into the living room, watching Bash glance over his phone to see if Dom responded to any texts. He’s been in particularly low spirits this year—it _is_ their first Christmas together, but they’re spending it an ocean apart.

But this’ll change that, Mary knows. She waves Francis away from his Keurig (it’s more akin to dragging away a corpse) and pads back into the main room, grinning at Bash.

“Hey, look what we found,” she teases, showing him the large present.

He glances down at his phone again and Mary can see the telltale swipe of his finger across the screen. “Oh, cool. Is it for Francis? From Catherine?”

Francis rolls his eyes. “No, dummy, it’s for you. From Dom.”

Bash jumps up from the couch. “From Dom? Seriously? Are you fucking—I swear to God, if you’re joking around, Francis… Here, give it to me, lemme see…”

“He’s not. It says on the tag,” says Mary, offering the box.

Bash grabs it, grinning like a maniac. “That dick face, I told him not to get me anything. I mean, I knew he would, but _still_. He’s in fucking _France_. God, the postage alone must’ve cost a shitload. What a fucking idiot…”

He tears the wrapping delicately, more careful than with the other gifts. He goes silent when he sees the thick tubes of oil paint and the horsehair brushes wrapped in cellophane. Francis doesn’t think he’s ever seen Bash’s eyes get so big. He looks up at Mary, speechless. “Fuck,” he breathes, touching one of the tubes with reverence. “This is way too much,” he says, getting up. “Where’s my fucking phone?”

“You okay?” Mary asks, suddenly concerned. Bash picks up his phone and dials.

“No, fuck off, I’m—how early is it there? No, they’re ahead of us, never mind—Dom? You fuckin’…” Bash laughs with disbelief, cut off and thrilled. “No, shut up, just—Yeah, I got the fucking—” He slams the door to his room.

Francis looks at Mary. “I guess that’s the last we’ll see of him for a while,” he says, feeling strange. It’s the first relationship Bash has ever had like this, and he feels like Dom’s gift is a gift for all of them—he can’t remember the last time he saw Bash so happy.

Mary picks up the tubes of paint, surveying them. “These look… _really_ expensive.”

“Must have been, with a reaction like that.”

“Should have gotten him more canvases,” she says, and Francis can tell she feels the same awe he does.

“Nah, I think he liked the gift cards enough. He hates when he can’t use a present, and gift cards let him choose what he wants.” He grins as he looks at the tree, eyes resting on a package wedged near the back. “You haven’t opened your last present from me, c’mon.”

Mary smiles as he presents her with the gift, a small box wrapped with red and pink paper. “Am I gonna like it?”

“You’d better,” he says, though he bites his lip nervously as she toys with the ribbon holding it closed.

She smiles faintly as she tugs on it, watching it fall away. She pulls the lid of the box off, and her eyes settle on what’s inside, lying on a bed of matte red fabric. It’s an artsy silver ring, glinting in the light, two bands of metal curving side by side to form the circle. At the end of one band, there’s a deep gray stone, polished smooth. It’s unlike any jewel Mary’s ever seen, and she’s fairly sure it’s some sort rock—granite, maybe, from the faint veins of sparkling stone. She covers her mouth and she knows it’s ridiculous, knows that she’s acting exactly like some girl in a stupid jewelry commercial, knows that if Bash were to appear behind her singing “Every kiss begins with Kay,” she wouldn’t blame him at all. But it’s so beautiful and perfect, and she knows it’s not just some ring Francis picked up.

“What the hell, loser, you didn’t have to buy me jewelry,” she mutters, a smile curving around her words.

He shrugs, his hands shaking a little as he hooks the ring off its box. “I didn’t buy it. I made it. It’s—it’s a promise ring, you know.” He stares at it, laying in his palm, and stares at her, blue eyes wide, then looks pointedly at her index finger. “Here, let me just…”

She laughs and splays her hand obligingly. His fingers brush hers as he slips the cool metal into place, the little stone iron gray against her pale skin. His face softens into a tender smile. “You like it?”

She nods. “Jesus, it’s beautiful. I—How’d you make it without me noticing?”

“Can’t tell you, because the next time I make you jewelry, you’ll be able to tell the signs.”

She shakes her head at him and pushes him against the couch. “Oh, you bet. I’ll follow all the damn signs. And they’ll lead right to you and your stupid jewelry-making. Seriously, I didn’t even know you could do this. I mean, metal-working, sure, but this is different, you know? This is—”

He pushes the hair out of her eyes and kisses her, and she can’t agree more. There’s no words. There’s nothing except the warmth of him, of home, of family, of Christmas. They’re laying on the couch, on each other, and she’s just so… _comfortable_ here, in his arms. When they pull away, she brushes the ring’s stone and feels his eyes on her. He scratches his head. “It’s—um, the rock. It’s one of the rocks you gave me. You know. On our first date. You remember?”

“Oh my God, you kept them?” She thinks back to the date. They’d had lunch together at a mediocre cafe, sitting under an umbrellaed table by the road, talking and exchanging shy smiles and drinking too much watered down Sprite. Then they’d taken a walk through a park, which had happened to have an inviting pond and a bed of pale pebbles that she knows Kenna would love to photograph. They’d sifted through the stones, noting the smoothness or color, and Mary ended up with quite a collection (which she’d actually meant to keep for herself, but, pocketless, had given to Francis to hold onto. He hadn’t given them back and she’d almost forgotten about them, until now). And apparently, he’d kept them for years and made one into a promise ring. 

God, she’s going to cry.

Bash must hear her blubbering because he sticks his head out from his room and shouts, “DID HE GO TO JARED?”

Mary rolls her eyes and laughs, looking at Francis, who has the same exasperated expression on his face. “Talk to your boyfriend, asshole,” Mary tells Bash.

Instead he leaves his room and sits down next to Mary on the couch. “Well, let me see,” he says, and Mary lifts her hand toward him. He grins involuntarily, glancing at Francis. “Your best work, I think,” he says. “Not bad, Francy-pants. Not bad. You like it?” he asks Mary.

She nods, beaming at Francis as he beams back.

“What happened to Dom?” Francis asks gently, wanting Bash out of the way but not wanting to force him in case Dom is unavailable.

Bash sighs and snuggles into the couch. “Had to go to lunch with his mom. He’ll be back in an hour or so.”

“You know,” Mary says, looking at Francis. “We’ve got food and presents and an hour to kill.”

Bash nods seriously. “Good point, Mary. It _is_ Christmas. What could we possibly do as a family that would last a little over an hour?”

Francis’s eyes light up. “You’re kidding, right? You don’t _actually_ want to watch it, you just want me to get excited.”

Bash shrugs, plodding toward the TV. “Well, Francis, if _you_ don’t want to watch it, I guess me and Mary can see it ourselves, all alone on the couch—”

“DON’T WATCH ELF WITHOUT ME!”

And with the warm weight of the ring on her finger, the sound of  _Elf_ being jammed into the DVD player, and Francis muttering about popcorn, it's easy to say that this may be the best Christmas ever.

 


	10. (Not So) Silent Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written by thanksforthecrumb.
> 
> (this one was supposed to come before the christmas day fic, but i didn't finish on time. shhh people can make christmas cookies after christmas it'S A THING)

“Cookies!” Francis squeals as he clears the kitchen table, a process that involves him shoving generally everything off the scratched wood. “I _love_ Christmas cookies! It’s the best part of Christmas!”

Bash rifles through the utensil drawers, slamming cupboards too hard in his quest for enough spoons. “Mary, where’re the wooden spoons? I can only find two.”

Mary looks up from her position at the table, her hands busy kneading sticky brown dough. “We only _have_ two.”

“Well _that_ isn’t going to work,” says Bash. “There are three of us.”

“Why do we even need three?”

“So we can each have a turn mixing the dough. Last year Francis hogged it the whole time.”

“Mary _gave_ the mixing spoon _to me_ , not you,” says Francis, straightening as he finishes clearing the table.

“It was supposed to be _shared_. You were supposed to _share_ it,” Bash tells him, getting animated with his eyebrows.

“Fine. If you want to mix it this time, go ahead.”

“Seriously?”

Francis shrugs. “I guess.”

Bash grins a Francis-esque grin, wide and happy, the corners of his eyes wrinkling. “Awesome. Mary, Francis says I can mix the whole time.”

“Okay,” says Mary, frowning as she pounds the dough. “This dough is too liquid-y. It’s like…it’s too runny.”

Francis dabs a finger into the blob’s side, lifting the scrap of uncooked cookie to his mouth. Mary’s frown deepens and she flicks the dough off his finger. He knows she doesn’t like it when he eats uncooked eggs. “I don’t know if it’ll hold up in the oven.”

“Mary. It’s _fine_ ,” says Bash, pulling her away from the dough. “Just put it in the fridge. Walk away. It’s fine. Can’t be worse than last year, right?”

She can’t disagree with that. “Okay,” she concedes, biting her lip. “What do you want to do while we’re waiting? We could watch a mo—”

“ _Elf_!” Francis shouts. “We could watch _Elf_!”

Bash groans. “Seriously, Francis, there _are_ other Christmas movies. Like, _White Christmas_. That’s a classic. _Home Alone_. Classic. _A Christmas Story._ The classic-est. Anything but fucking _Elf_.”

“ _Elf_ ’s a classic,” he points out.

“ _Uggggghgggghh_ ,” says Bash.

“I’ll go get it,” Francis offers helpfully, scampering over to the couch and popping the movie into the DVD player.

“I _hate_ this fucking movie,” Bash moans as Francis pulls him in front of the TV and hums along to the soundtrack.

* * *

  “Francis,” Bash says, “pass me the M&Ms.”

“Hey, I’m still using them,” Francis protests, sheltering the bowl of candies with an arm.

“You are not. I literally just saw you finish that cookie.”

Francis glances down at his cookie, the little man’s large yellow M&M eyes friendly, his red sprinkle smile bright. “It’s not finished.”

“Really?” Bash cocks an eyebrow. “What else are you going to add to it?”

“I am _thinking_ , okay, Bash, you can’t rush the artistic process.”

“Sure,” Bash says, and positions himself so that his nose is practically touching Francis’s cookie. “I’m just, y’know, going to watch that artistic process.”

Francis glares at him, but his brother doesn’t move. He sighs and bites his lip, studying the table of candy. He rifles through the M&M bowl, searching for blue, which he puts on the gingerbread man’s feet.

“Hmm, what’s _that_ , Francis? Are those toenails, or—”

“They’re shoes, Bash. They’re clearly shoes.”

“How you guys doing over there?” Mary calls from the kitchen, popping her head out long enough to see Bash make a mad grab for the M&M bowl and Francis slap his brother’s hands away. “Just…play nicely.”

“My gingerbread woman kicks your man’s ass,” Bash tells Francis as he dusts his cookie with a layer of tiny sprinkles.

Francis makes a face and looks at Bash’s cookie. It has a green candy dress with fuzzy red jimmies for texture, mini M&Ms for eyes. Long chocolate sprinkles for the hair, a single carefully placed red sprinkle for the lips. It’s pretty.

It’s gross, Francis decides. “Unrealistic expectations,” he whispers, plucking one of the jimmies off and eating it.

“What? No.”

“Yes,” says Francis. “And anyway, you didn’t use enough chocolate.”

“It’s my fucking cookie, Francis, I can decorate it however I want. Maybe I didn’t want much chocolate on this one.”

Francis shrugs and pilfers more candy from the candy bowls. Bash’s eyes dart to his brother, and he quickly swipes a handful of M&Ms before Francis sees, adding them to his gingerbread woman’s dress. He wants a lot of chocolate on this one.

“Mary!” Francis calls as he puts the finishing touches on a cookie. “Where are you? You’re missing all the decorating!”

“I’m in the kitchen,” is the harassed reply, coming through crashes and metallic bangs.

“Why?”

“I’m making another batch of dough,” she yells back amidst hissed exclamations of “ _Fuck!_ ”

Bash exchanges a look with Francis. “Why?”

“It’s just—the batch you’re decorating—it’s just, I made it wrong. I was going over the recipe, and I think I put too much salt.”

“That’s okay,” Francis says reasonably. “We’re American; we won’t notice. Our blood is basically made of salt.”

“No, but, like, I put _way_ too much salt,” Mary answers, walking toward the boys with a bowl of new dough in her hands.

Bash takes one of Francis’s unfinished cookies and nibbles the head gingerly. He screws up his eyes. “Fuck, are you trying to kill us? Jesus, Mary.”

She bites her lip. “Yeah. I think I used salt instead of sugar, as well as the salt the recipe calls for.”

Francis looks mournfully at his sheet of half-decorated cookies. “So…We making a new batch?”

“Yeah, we can’t eat those.”

“God, it’s like an express ticket to a heart attack,” says Bash, washing his mouth out with diet Pepsi. (Which, evidently, is sort of like an express ticket to osteoporosis.) (Also cavities.) (But we won’t tell him that.)

“Sorry,” Mary apologizes. “But, hey, the new batch should be out soon.”

* * *

 “Aw, they look so pretty in the oven,” Bash says, watching his new gingerbread woman (white dress and blonde hair this time) lighten into a pleasant russet.

Francis grins, putting his face nearly against the stove door. “It’s so warm.”

Mary pulls them both back, rolling her eyes at their boyish excitement. “Give it some space. We’ve got ten more minutes till they’re done.”

The boys generously back up about half a millimeter, their noses still hovering in front of the oven. Mary grins at them and walks into the living room, delighting in the spicy smell of gingerbread baking.

“Godddd,” Francis whines after a silent minute of watching, “are they _almost done_?”

“Nine minutes, babe,” she calls to him from her seat on the couch.

“ _Uggghhhh_.”

Bash and Francis, who have the combined attention span of a newborn fruit fly, quickly get tired of standing still and watching cookies bake. After several dangerous games of Rock, Paper, Shoot (“You _cheated_ , Francis. I _saw_ you. That was _definitely_ a fucking rock. No, Francis. Stop lying, Jesus Christ. No. Paper beats fucking rock, okay? Use your goddamn brain.”), the brothers gather around Mary, who’s retreated to the couch with a crossword and a newly sharpened pencil. She looks up at them. “What? Go back to the oven. You have to take them out in four minutes.”

“We’re _bored_ ,” Bash complains, stealing Mary’s pencil so she’ll pay attention to him. She rolls her eyes and snatches it back.

“I don’t know, here, do a crossword,” she says, offering the book to Bash. 

He wrinkles his nose. “Those are boring.”

“Please. The only reason you don’t like crosswords is because it took you and Francis an hour to finish one. An _hour_.”

Francis looks up from where he’s laying on his stomach, doodling on the back of one of Mary’s finished crosswords. “Hey,” he protests indignantly, “I’m good at crosswords.”

“Really?” Mary says, raising an eyebrow. She hands him hers. “This one. Do it.”

He fidgets, ruffling his curls (which he probably did on purpose, but she won’t let it get to her, she won’t) as he stares at the puzzle. He makes a face as he reaches for the sheet and sprawls on the floor, sucking on the end of the pen. He’s so concentrated, it’s adorable. His eyebrows are pulled together, his lips tightened into a little frustrated frown as he attempts to figure out “a nine letter word that describes a very important winter birthday and religious holiday.”

She could watch him all day.

Unfortunately, she can’t and she knows that. But it’s not this knowledge that keeps her from watching her boyfriend a moment longer. It’s an acrid smell that floats into the living room and sticks in their nostrils. She coughs drily, the smell clinging to the back of her throat. “Oh, fuck,” she breathes as she remembers.

The damn cookies.

And then, as one, they all remember, and they’re all sprinting to the oven and sliding over the tiled kitchen floor in their fuzzy socks (it’s still Christmas and that means fuzzy socks are never taken off), and Mary’s pulling out a pan of charred gingerbread beings. Bash makes a strangled noise as he looks at his gingerbread woman.

“ _Trisha_ ,” he whispers, reaching out a hand involuntarily.

“Okay, okay. This is okay,” says Mary, fanning the air with a kitchen mitt. “I’ll just make another batch. Yeah.”

“Okay,” Francis agrees, sniffing a blackened cookie. He nibbles it adventurously. “God, that’s burnt.”

“ _Trisha_ ,” says Bash, cradling his crumbling gingerbread woman, brittle chips of cookie sticking onto his shirt.

Jesus, Mary thinks, we really need to get out more.

* * *

 “This one,” Mary announces as she rolls out the dough, “is perfect.”

Bash studies it, his nose wrinkling. “It looks kind of like elephant shit, to be honest.”

She glares at him. “It’s fucking _gingerbread_ , Bash. It has molasses in it. It’s supposed to be dark.”

“I don’t know…Your other batches weren’t that dark.”

“That’s because the other batches were _wrong_.”

He raises his hands in surrender. “Hey, you’re the chef.”

“I _am_ the fucking chef,” says Mary. 

Francis grins at her stern expression and plays with the long strands of hair falling down her back. “You’re hot when you get controlling,” he says, poking her elbow.

She scowls at him, not endeared. (Okay, so she’s a _little_ endeared. But only a little. Sort of.) “I’m not controlling.”

He shrugs easily, still smiling. “Whatever you say, boss.”

“Shut up and decorate your damn cookies,” she says, and sets the bowl of cookie cutters in front of the boys. They fall on the shapes, both trying to get to the gingerbread man cutter first. (“ _Baaash_ , I had my _hand_ around it, you can’t just _take it_ when I had my _hand_ around it! That’s not fair! _Baaash_!”)

It’s about twenty minutes later when Mary slides the cookie sheets into the oven, Francis and Bash smiling down proudly on their gingerbread creations. “This is my best gingerbread woman, Mary,” says Bash, “so don’t fuck it up.”

“Hey,” she protests. “It was _your_ fault last time. If you and Francis had—”

“ _You_ bribed us with crosswords!” Francis says, his voice rising approximately two and a half octaves.

Mary rolls her eyes and flicks leftover flour in his face. “Not fair!” he yells, spluttering as he wipes the white powder off his nose. “You can’t just _throw_ flour!”

She smiles innocently and reaches out to brush it off. “But I did.” Her hand lingers over his lips, and she catches his eyes in hers, smiling wider as she runs the pad of her finger over his jaw.

“ _Uuuuughhhh_ ,” groans Bash, shaking his head in disgust. “You guys are so straight, _honestly_.”

Mary makes a face at him and pokes Francis’s nose, still dusted in flour. “Check your cookies, asshole,” she tells Bash.

He does, pulling the pans out with a large smile. “Aw, d’you smell that? All that ginger. Are you sure you didn’t put too much? Nah, forget it, they smell good.”

“Thanks,” says Mary.

“Jesus, Mary, no one likes a gloater.”

* * *

 “I thought you wanted to decorate cookies.”

“I do. I mean, I did.” Francis looks at Mary, leading her eyes to the table covered in different batches of cookies. There must be at least five. Bash has long since scuttled off to his room, claiming exhaustion. Francis has seen the man go days without sleep, but he doesn’t say anything. At least, he doesn’t say it very loudly. “But, like, haven’t we made enough cookies?”

“No,” Mary growls, mixing the dough harder. “It’s not good enough, none of them are good enough. They’re all shit.”

“Well, no,” Francis says, picking up a cookie from a recent batch. It’s undercooked and floppy, and he’s sort of positive that eating it will give him food poisoning, but it’s better than some of the other batches. “Hey, this one’s not all bad.”

She glares at him. “You really think so? Eat it. Come on, eat it.”

“I don’t—I don’t really want—”

“See? I fucking suck at Christmas cookies, God, you don’t have to pretend.”

Francis wants to disagree. Like, really badly. Mary in a frenzy is really scary, and she’s never been this crazed—not since the time they tried playing Monopoly. God, Francis is shuddering just thinking about it. He glances at the table again, determined to find a decent batch.

Damn, he thinks, she really does suck at Christmas cookies.

There're the burnt ones (“I didn’t know it was at 500˚!”), the undercooked ones (“Well, I turned it down because of last time…”), the batches with the pieces of egg shells (“Damn it, Francis, _you_ try to break the eggs, alright? _You_ fucking try it.”), the ones with too much cinnamon and/or ginger (“Jesus, Mary, if I’d wanted to take the fucking cinnamon challenge, I would’ve said so.”), and the batches that just generally sucked. (“It even _tastes_ like elephant shit!”)

He puts a comforting hand on her shoulder. She speeds up her mixing. “Just put the spoon down, okay?”

“I _can’t_. I have to make the perfect gingerbread cookies.”

He’s too tired to be a good boyfriend. “ _Fiiine_ , but I’m going to bed.”

“Okay,” she mutters under her breath. “I’ll wake you up when there’s a batch to decorate.”

“No, no. You don’t have to do that.”

* * *

 Mary comes into the bedroom laden with a tray of cookies twice before he’s able to convey to her that he really _does not_ want to decorate, _yes_ , he’s _sure_ , thanks for asking, though, and he bets they’ll turn out great.

When she opens the door for the third time, it’s changed from night to morning. Mary’s grin is caffeine-charged and stolen from the Cheshire cat. It makes Francis want to dive under the covers. He’s learned to avoid that grin at all costs.

“Here,” she says roughly, shoving a cookie sheet into his hands. “I perfected my gingerbread recipe.”

He sniffs doubtfully. They do smell good, but so did her other batches. He takes one and bites into it gingerly. (Haha, _ginger_ ly.) (God, it’s too early for Francis to be up, it’s really too early.)

“Mmm,” he says around a mouthful of cookie, “yeah, this is good.”

Her eyes are brown saucers swallowing his. “Really?”

“Yeah.” He chews. “Wow. Yeah, these are really good. How’d you get them so soft?”

“Oh,” Mary answers, giving him a frightening wink as she backs out of the bedroom, “it’s a secret.”

And then she leaves Francis to contemplate that. (Should he be worried about the legality of this “secret ingredient”?) He sits in bed, thinking about nothing and listening to the sounds of Mary cleaning up.

In the kitchen, Mary sweeps away cartons of milk and broken egg shells, pushing a large, empty box of Market Pantry gingerbread cookies to the bottom of the trash, where no one will find her secret ingredient.


	11. Happy Fucking New Year

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written by whilemyfandomsgentlyweep.

Internet sex can get boring after a while. Especially when Christmas has come and gone and New Year’s—Bash’s favorite holiday—is nearly over. Mary’s tree has already started shedding.

And Dom’s not back from France yet.

He’d been in Africa for November and most of December, and his mother had wanted to see him for the holidays, so he took a detour to France, due home on the third of January. It’s been—Bash glances at his calendar—fifty-seven days. God. Fifty-seven days without kissing him or touching his hair or holding his hand.

Bash had spent Christmas Eve hoping Dom would turn up at the door, pink-cheeked and covered in snow, grinning that stupid grin of his, saying, “I caught a flight back early, I had to see you.” Then Bash would kiss him until Francis told him to get a room, and they’d have sex on the couch and get blankets and sleep under the tree like he’d done as a kid.

Mary kept giving him sympathetic looks. “Do you want to watch a movie?”

“ _Elf!_ ” Francis called from his room. “You wanna watch _Elf_?” Francis seems to think _Elf_ was the only movie on planet Earth from November 1st to January 6th.

“How many times must you watch that fucking movie?” Bash had groaned. “No, I don’t want to watch anything.”

“Hot chocolate?” Mary would sit down next to him in one of her ridiculously ugly yet ridiculously adorable Christmas sweaters and put her arm around him. “He’ll be home before you know it, okay?”

“Uuughhhh, Mary,” Bash would tell her. “Stop being nice to me, it’s disgusting. Say something mean.”

“You look sad.”

Ouch. He probably did.

Bash loves Christmas. He loves making gifts for people—Francis always rolls his eyes when he unwraps another painting, but Bash knows he likes every piece he’s ever received. And Bash likes _getting_ things. He loves the atmosphere. Everyone seems a little bit happier during Christmas. He loves snow when it first falls, and loves complaining about it once it’s been covered with mud and looks like a gigantic reindeer took a shit all over the streets. He loves that he has an excuse to listen to Michael Bublé’s Christmas album without Francis complaining, because it’s _Christmas_ and that’s when you listen to fucking _Christmas songs_ , and when Freddie Mercury releases a posthumous Christmas album, let me know, Francis.

Bash had been looking forward to doing disgusting couple-y things with Dom. Snowball fights and Christmas cookies and hot chocolate and candy canes and decorating the tree and hanging a forest of mistletoe on the ceiling just to have an excuse to make out all the time.

Then Dom called and said his mother had _insisted_ , and the flights were already paid for and he’d be back before the third. And Bash had said yes, of course, go see your mom, but after a week he wished he hadn’t. Christmas only happens once a year, and his first Christmas with Dom had not gone the way he’d planned.

The landline rings, but Bash is comfortably settled on the couch. “Someone get it,” he yells.

“Not me,” Francis yells back from his room.

“ _UUGHHH_ ,” Mary yells at both of them before running into the kitchen and picking it up. “Hello?”

Bash adjusts his blanket and turns on the TV, thinking about all the other lonely people out on New Year’s right now. Lonely people who could keep each other company. It would be easy to find a lonely person on a night like tonight.

He hears the Mary set the phone down. “Who was it?” Bash calls, flicking through channels. He sticks on the New Year’s Eve celebration—Katy Perry’s performing, the announcer says. How sad, Bash thinks. Katy Perry’s not getting any tonight either.

“Bash,” Mary says, coming into the room. Her lips are pressed together, trying hopelessly to repress an enormous smile.

“Who was it?” he says again, sitting up.

“Bash,” she repeats, her teeth nearly blinding him, “go downstairs.”

Bash sighs. “Mary, it’s New Year’s Eve, and I’m at home and I’m tired and I miss my boyfriend and he’s lucky I love him because I could be drunkenly making out with some gorgeous blonde chick right now but I’m sitting here instead, so dear _God_ , don’t make me move right now.”

“Bash, just go. Seriously.”

“What am I looking for, anyway?”

“ _Go_ ,” Mary yells.

“Don’t blame me if I accidentally bring someone home, the girls are very suggestible right now!”

Bash trudges down the stairs in his fuzzy socks because he’s too lazy to put on his boots. Before he gets to the bottom of the stairs, he hears whispering, and then the sound of a slightly out-of-tune ukulele and a deep, rich voice singing, “ _Who’s gonna be the one to hold you tight? When it’s exactly twelve o’clock at night? Welcoming New Year’s… New Year’s Eve…_?”

And there’s Bash’s wish, even if it’s a week late.

Bash breaks into a grin before Dom even turns around. A few of Dom’s friends—why’d he have to bring _Olivia?_ —are filming him with their phones, beaming at them like they’re the cutest couple since Paul and Linda McCartney.

Dom’s beard has grown in a bit more, and his hair’s just as unruly as always, and his eyes are still beautiful and his smile still makes Bash’s heart flutter, and Bash just stands there like an idiot, on _camera_ , as Dom walks toward him and sings, “ _Maybe I’m crazy, to suppose, I’d ever be the one you chose… Ah, but in case I stand one little chance, here comes the jackpot question in advance…”_

They’re eye-to-eye now, Bash smiling stupidly as Dom’s crinkled eyes fix on his. “Are you going to stop singing so I can kiss you?” Bask asks so only they can hear, but Dom grins wider and shakes his head.

“ _What are you doing New Years? New… Year’s… Eve?_ ”

The second he finishes, Bash shoves the ukulele out of the way and kisses him, wrapping his arms around Dom and squeezing. “I’m doing _you_ ,” Bash mumbles. Dom chuckles against him, setting the ukulele on the floor gently before returning Bash’s hug with equal ferocity. “Did you miss me?”

“Your lips are still cold,” Bash replies, remembering that other people are there. He leans in closer and says, “I’d _show_ you how much I missed you, but you’ve got a bit of a crowd…”

Dom flushes quickly and says, “Okay guys, thanks. Show’s over. Have a good New Year’s, okay?”

They wish him the same and leave together. “I’ll text you the video!” Olivia tells them, probably thinking she’s being helpful. “Have fun, you two.”

“Oh, you have fun as well, Olivia,” Bash says sweetly as she leaves. Dom gives him a look. “What? I’m just being cordial,” Bash tells him.

“Sassy, that’s what you’re being.”

“Dohhhhm, it’s New Year’s. Come on, come upstairs,” Bash says, pulling him along. “You missed all of Christmas, you have to make it up to me.”

“I see you haven’t changed a bit,” Dom remarks. “Got anything to eat?”

“Gingerbread, for one thing. Mary’s been trying to perfect the recipe.”

“Oh, great.”

“Did you get my Christmas card?” Bash asks.

Dom smiles. “Yeah, I loved it. I appreciated the glitter.”

“Did you see me wearing your sweater?”

Dom leans against the door frame as Bash unlocks the door to the apartment. “Yeah. You look really hot in it.” Bash breaks into a grin at that, about to reply, when Mary hears them coming in.

“Bring home any cute girls?” she calls.

“The cutest,” Bash replies.

Mary pops her head out from Francis’s room. “Hey, Dom. How was your flight?”

Dom smiles at her. “It was all right. Long. How have you been?”

Mary opens her mouth to answer, but she sees Bash’s look and quiets. “I’ve been good. I think Bash wants you to himself, though, he’s giving me the evil eye.”

“Oh, be cordial,” Dom scolds. Bash rolls his eyes, grabbing the cookie tin and pulling Dom into his room.

“It’s almost midnight, and you still have your clothes on,” Bash says, pulling his own shirt off.

“Is there a penalty for being clothed at midnight on New Year’s?” Dom asks. He selects a gingerbread cookie and sits on Bash’s bed.

“It’s bad luck!” Bash tells him. He’s naked now, and cold. He crawls under his comforter. “Come on, off with your clothes. Last time I was clothed on New Year’s I lost my job within a week and had a three-month dry spell. Off, off.”

“All right,” Dom says, unbuckling his belt, “but I think you’re just trying to get me into bed.”

“That’s just a perk,” Bash assures him, making room as a naked Dom slips in next to him. He feels a cold hand against his back and hisses. “Ahh, you did that on purpose.”

“Just a perk.”

“Right, yeah.” Bash presses himself against Dom for warmth—and for the sake of touching him, _God._ He wants to cover himself with Dom. “Your mom’s okay with you coming back early?”

“She said as long as I send her that video, I could catch the next flight to JFK.”

“I’m glad you’re here.”

“I am, too.”

“We’re gonna have a lot of sex after tonight, I just want you to know that right now.”

Dom laughs, pressing his face into Bash’s hair. “I knoowww, you pervert. I’m surprised you haven’t tried to suck me off yet.”

“Well, it’s been difficult,” Bash jokes. “Mm… no, I just want to hold you right now, is that okay?”

“Of course it is.”

“Good.”

“I have that blue crayon you sent me. It’s in my bag.”

“Oh, good, give that to Francis, tell him it’s a late Christmas present.”

Dom laughs. “Happy New Year, Bash,” he says, taking Bash’s hand under the blankets. “To the first of many.”

“Happy New Year, Dom.”

They lie quietly, warming up under Bash’s covers until their hands start to sweat. Bash rolls over. “We gonna have sex now?”

“Yeah, of course we are.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year, Reign fandom! I hope you've enjoyed AFMC as much as Kay and I enjoyed writing it. Anyway… BASTRADAMUS IS TAKING OVER NEW YEAR'S AHAhAAA. Sleep naked and maybe you’ll get another season… (or Francis will live who knows the possibilities are endless)


	12. It's Just Not Christmas (Like, At All)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written by thanksforthecrumb. (Title by whilemyfandomsgentlyweep.)

“It has to go, Francis.” Mary stands with hands on her hips, watching her boyfriend try to wrap himself around the tree **,** shedding orangish needles all over the floor in the process.

“I don’t _want_ it to! Christmas only just _got here_.”

“Francis,” says Bash, tugging at his brother’s sleeve, “let it go.”

“Every year, we have to do this. _Every year_. Let’s—let’s break tradition, okay? Be the rebels,” Francis says, patting the tree. It pointedly loses seventy-five percent of its remaining needles, scattering them on the carpet. Mary’s frown deepens.

“ _Fraaancis_ ,” she groans. “It’s _old_. It’s _dead_. _We’re throwing it away_.”

He pouts, dimpling his chin. Mary’s eyes twitch. He’s doing his abandoned puppy face, his pale lips parted in a whimper, blue eyes opened wide. “Ugh, fine, we can keep the tree for one more day.”

Francis grins in delight and wraps his arms around her, singing “One Day More” in her ear, which is definitely not making her want to keep the Christmas tree. Well, at least he’s not singing “O Christmas Tree” in German.

 

Mary hears the aluminum cookie tin bang against the table and glances into the kitchen, where Francis is pawing after any salvageable gingerbread cookies. She smiles fondly. “Francis, they’re gone. We finished them Thursday, remember?”

He’s got his nose stuck in the container, inhaling any leftover crumbs. “No. There has to be gingerbread. There’s always gingerbread. Where’s the gingerbread?”

“We _finished_ it.”

“No,” he says, his hair dotted with reddish crumbs.

She gets up, putting a hand on his arm. “ _Francis_. I know this is hard to understand, okay? But we’re out of gingerbread. It’s all gone.”

He ignores her and turns away, leaning into the fridge as he takes up his search for the cookies. She watches him with the sad pity of someone who knows the bitter truth. “A _ha_!” he yells abruptly, dragging out a container. “Gingerbread!” He waves the plastic in her face.

“Huh,” she says. “Those must be the ones from the first batch.”

Mary watches as Francis spits out the two cookies he’d jammed into his cheeks. “ _Fluuubk_ ,” he says, shaking his head vigorously against the salty taste.

She pats his curly head sympathetically, eyeing the shower of cookie crumbs that falls from his hair. “Francis,” she tells him quietly, “it’s over. Christmas is gone.”

He’s got his face in the sink faucet, rinsing out his mouth with tap water. “No,” he gargles out between gulps, “I refuse to accept it. Christmas isn’t over.”

 

When Francis comes home, the usual mini wreath with twinkling LED lights isn’t hanging on the door to the apartment. His hands fumble as he puts the key in the lock. “Mary,” he says as soon as he bursts through the door, “where’s the wreath?”

She exchanges a guilty look with Bash, who rolls his eyes and takes a vicious bite out of his apple.

“Mary?” he asks again, his voice rising in panic.

She bites her lip. “We took it down.”

“ _We_?” Francis stares at Bash. “I knew Mary would betray me, but you? You’re my brother.”

Mary opens her mouth in protest at this betrayal comment. Bash shrugs. “It’s almost fuckin’ February, dude, it needed to come down.”

“Christmas decorations only come down when Easter decorations go up. Those are the _rules_.”

“Francis,” Bash says, putting his hands on his brother’s shoulders. “Christmas is _over_. It’s time to let go.”

Francis frowns and disappears into his bedroom.

Bash gives Mary a look. She sighs. “I’ll go talk to him.”

Just as the door is shoved closed, a very loud, very defiant version of “It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year” drifts out into the living. Bash whistles. “Pretty bad this year, huh?”

Mary nods. “Pretty damn bad.”

 

“Where’s the snow gone?” Francis says one morning when he looks out of the bedroom window.

Mary rubs her eyes blearily and follows him to the windowsill. The ground is bare and brown, the sky cloudless blue. The only trace of snow is the gray-brown sludge at the sides of the roads. “Hmm,” she says. “Must’ve rained last night, washed it away.”

“But it was _just_ there,” Francis says in disbelief.

Mary shrugs, putting an arm around him. “There’ll be more snow.”

“It’s _different_.”

Mary sighs. “ _Babe_. Christmas isn’t a _thing_ anymore. It’s over. Done. There’s always next year.”

His lip quivers a bit. “I don’t want to _wait_ for next year,” he whispers.

She leans on him, blocking his view of the outdoors. “You’ll be fine. This happens every year.”

“ _Why_ , though?” His eyes are big and shiny, latching onto hers, searching for an explanation. “It always goes so quickly. Too quickly.”

“Yeah, I know. But it’ll come quickly, too. Christmas’ll be here again before you know it.”

He frowns. “But I don’t want to _waaaaait_.”

She grins despite his serious, sad tone and plays with the tangled curls at the top of his head. He follows her hand instinctively, pushing his hair into her palms. “No one does, really.”

He sighs and watches the rain trickle down the window. She nudges him and smiles. “Hey, how about I make you some hot chocolate? Huh? Peppermint hot chocolate. And we can put _Elf_ in. How about that?”

“It’s just not the _same_ ,” Francis says, resting his cheeks on his hands.

Mary pats his back and gets up. “Okay. C’mon, get dressed. I’ll make breakfast.”

He gets up slowly, drags himself over to his closet. “I still get hot chocolate, though, right? And we can watch _Elf_ during breakfast?”

“Would it make you feel better?”

“A little.”

She sighs. “Fine, sure.”

A little ghost of his grin comes back. “Okay.”

“You’re such a loser,” says Mary.

 

They’re all sitting in the car, waiting for Francis to start the ignition. The hunger in the air is thick, and Mary’s stomach growls for the sixth time in two minutes. China Hill’s just ten minutes away, she thinks mournfully, watching Francis play around with the car’s radio.

“ _Godddd_ ,” Bash groans. “Honestly, they’ve probably made three more _Jump Streets_ , we’ve been sitting here so long. Start the fucking car, Francis, Jesus.”

Francis jams at the stereo in frustration. He’s gone through all the stations at least twice now, and he’s still stubbornly pushing the buttons, blond brows pulled tight together in what would be adorable consternation if Mary couldn’t actually feel her stomach curling into a tiny ball and dying.

“Francis,” she says finally. “What are you doing? We’ve been sitting here for fifteen minutes.”

“Has it been fifteen minutes?” Bash says. “Wow, it seemed more like four and a half eternities.”

Francis ignores Bash. He clenches his jaw, and if Mary’s stomach hadn’t been twisting itself into a pretzel (ohhh, _pretzels_ , God, she’s really fucking hungry), she would probably lean across the little table and give him a kiss, he’s so cute.

“I am _looking_ for a station that plays _Christmas_ songs,” Francis says after an uncomfortable minute punctured with the mutterings of empty stomachs.

Mary groans in unison with her belly. “ _Fraahhncis_ ,” she whines. “I’m so-o-o _hun_ gry.”

“Listen to the woman,” Bash says.

“Don’t call me woman.”

“Listen to the maiden.”

“Don’t call me maiden.”

“Fuck it, Francis, just start the damn car.”

“I’m not going anywhere if we don’t listen to Christmas music,” Francis says firmly.

“It’s basically _July_ ,” Bash points out.

“Francis,” Mary tries to say reasonably, distress edging into her voice. “It’s not Christmas anymore. You have to let go of it.”

Francis stares at her evenly. “I’m not starting this car if there’s no Christmas music.”

Mary stares back. It sort of feels like her stomach is crawling out of her eyes now, which isn’t pleasant at all, actually. She desperately goes through the radio stations again, knowing there won’t be any Christmas songs. It still disappoints her when she finds none, and her belly is working its way into her brain and, goddamn it, she needs _food_.

“ _It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas_ ,” she shout-sings desperately. Her stomach is halfway out her throat now. She sings louder.

Bash takes up the bass part. (He’s clearly a tenor, but Mary doesn’t say anything because her enraged stomach is shoving itself up her throat.) Francis smiles faintly at them and starts the car, singing the “harmony” to Mary’s melody.

It sounds like shit, the three of them singing in three different keys, the sound of gurgling bellies accompanying the tune. And no one but Francis knows all the lyrics, so in the end it’s just him singing the verses with Bash and Mary mumbling gibberish and coming back in for the chorus.

When they reach the restaurant, (Mary’s really glad it’s a buffet, because God knows she’d never make it otherwise) Francis turns off the engine and smiles at them. “I love Christmas,” he says.

They’re too hungry to tell him it’s not Christmas anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so, so much for reading and supporting this stupid little fluff project! Even through the stress (goddd the stress), I did have fun writing it, and I can only hope someone enjoyed reading it. So yeah. Thanks for reading and I hope you all make the new year hella.


End file.
